LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


WAR    POETRY 


OP 


THE     SOUTH. 


EDITED   BY 

WILLIAM    GILMORE   SIMMS, LL.D. 


NEW    YORK: 

RICHARDSON     &     COMPANY, 

540    BROADWAY. 

1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S66, 
By  KICHAEDSQN  &  CO. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  Dis 
trict  of  New  York. 


"KESS  OF  GEO.  C.  RAND  &  AVERY, 
540  BROADWAY. 


TO 


THE  WOMEN  OF  THE  SOUTH, 
1  Inscribe 


They  have  lost  a  cause,  but  they  have  made  a  triumph  !  They  have 
shown  themselves  worthy  of  any  manhood  ;  and  will  leave  a  record 
which  shall  survive  all  the  caprices  of  time.  They  have  proved  them 
selves  worthy  of  the  best  womanhood,  and,  in  their  posterity,  will  leave 
no  race  which  shall  be  unworthy  of  the  cause  which  is  lost,  or  of  the 
mothers,  sisters  and  wives,  who  have  taught  such  noble  lessons  of  vir 

tuous  effort,  and  womanly  endurance. 

W.  G.  8. 


225727 


PREFACE. 


SEVERAL  considerations  have  prompted  the  editor  of  this  volume 
in  the  compilation  of  its  pages.  It  constitutes  a  contribution  to 
the  national  literature  which  is  assumed  to  be  not  unworthy  of  it, 
and  which  is  otherwise  valuable  as  illustrating  the  degree  of 
mental  and  art  development  which  has  been  made,  in  a  large  sec 
tion  of  the  country,  under  circumstances  greatly  calculated  to 
stimulate  talent  and  provoke  expression,  through  the  higher  utter 
ances  of  passion  and  imagination.  /Though  sectional  in  its  char 
acter,  and  indicative  of  a  temper  and  a  feeling  which  were  in  con 
flict  with  nationality,  yet,  now  that  the  States  of  the  Union  have 
been  resolved  into  one  nation,  this  collection  is  essentially  as  much 
the  property  of  the  whole  as  are  the  captured  cannon  which  were 
employed  against  it  during  the  progress  of  the  late  war.  It  belongs 
to  the  national  literature,  and  will  hereafter  be  regarded  as  con 
stituting  a  proper  part  of  it,  just  as  legitimately  to  be  recognized 
by  the  nation  as  are  the  rival  ballads  of  the  cavaliers  and  round 
heads,  by  the  English,  in  the  great  civil  conflict  of  their  country. } 

The  emotional  literature  of  a  people  is  as  necessary  to  the  philo 
sophical  historian  as  the  mere  details  of  events  in  the  progress  of  a 
nation.  This  is  essential  to  the  reputation  of  the  Southern  people, 
as  illustrating  their  feelings,  sentiments,  ideas,  and  opinions — the 
motives  which  influenced  their  actions,  and  the  objects  which  they 
hud  in  contemplation,  and  which  seemed  to  them  to  justify  the 
struggle  in  which  they  were  engaged.  It  shows  with  what  spirit 
the  popular  mind  regarded  the  course  of  events,  whether  favorable 
or  adverse ;  and,  in  this  aspect,  it  is  even  of  more  importance  to 
the  writer  of  history  than  any  mere  chronicle  of  facts.  The  mere 


vi  PREFACE. 

facts  in  a  history  do  not  always,  or  often,  indicate  the  true  animus 
of  the  action.  But,  in  poetry  and  song,  the  emotional  nature  is 
apt  to  declare  itself  without  reserve — speaking  out  with  a  passion 
which  disdains  subterfuge,  and  through  media  of  imagination  and 
fancy,  which  are  not  only  without  reserve,  hut  which  are  too 
coercive  in  their  own  nature,  too  arbitrary  in  their  influence,  to 
acknowledge  any  restraints  upon  that  expression,  which  glows  or 
weeps  with  emotions  that  gush  freely  and  freshly  from  the  heart. 
With  this  persuasion,  we  can  also  forgive  the  muse  who,  in  her 
fervor,  is  sometimes  forgetful  of  her  art. 

And  yet,  it  is  believed  that  the  numerous  pieces  of  this  volume 
will  be  found  creditable  to  the  genius  and  culture  of  the  Southern 
people,  and  honorable,  as  in  accordance  with  their  convictions. 
They  are  derived  from  all  the  States  of  the  late  Southern  Confed 
eracy,  and  will  be  found  truthfully  to  exhibit  the  sentiment  and 
opinion  prevailing  more  or  less  generally  throughout  the  whole. 
The  editor  has  had  special  advantages  in  making  the  compilation. 
Having  a  large  correspondence  in  most  of  the  Southern  States,  he 
has  found  no  difficulty  in  procuring  his  material.  Contributions 
have  poured  in  upon  him  from  all  portions  of  the  South;  the 
original  publications  having  been,  in  a  large  number  of  cases, 
subjected  to  the  careful  revision  of  the  several  authors.  It  is  a 
matter  of  great  regret  with  him  that  the  limits  of  the  present  vol 
ume  have  not  suffered  him  to  do  justice  to,  and  find  a  place  for, 
many  of  the  pieces  which  fully  deserve  to  be  put  on  record.  Some 
of  the  poems  were  quite  too  long  for  his  purpose;  a  large  number, 
delayed  by  the  mails  and  other  causes,  were  received  too  late  for 
publication.  Several  collections,  from  Louisiana,  North  Carolina, 
and  Texas,  especially,  are  omitted  for  this  reason.  Many  of  these 
pieces  ara  distinguished  by  fire,  force,  passion,  and  a  free  play  of 
fancy.  Briefly,  his  material  would  enable  him  to  prepare  another 
volume,  similar  to  the  present,  which  would  not  be  unworthy  of 
its  companionship.  He  is  authorized  by  his  publisher  to  say  that, 
in  the  event  of  the  popular  success  of  the  present  volume,  he  will 
cheerfully  follow  up  its  publication  by  a  second,  of  like  style,  char 
acter,  and  dimensions. 


PREFACE.  VJi 

The  editor  has  seen  with  pleasure  the  volume  of  "  Rebel 
Rhymes1'  edited  by  Mr.  Moore,  and  of  tk  South  Songs,"  by  Mr.  De 
Leon.  He  has  seen,  besides,  a  single  number  of  a  periodical 
pamphlet  called  "The  Southern  Monthly,"  published  at  Memphis. 
Tenn.  This  has  been  supplied  him  by  a  contributor.  He  has  seen 
no  other  publications  of  this  nature,  though  he  has  heard  of  others, 
and  has  sought  for  them  in  vain.  There  may  be  others  still  forth 
coming;  for,  in  so  large  a  field,  with  a  population  so  greatly  scat 
tered  as  that  of  the  South,  it  is  a  physical  impossibility  adequately 
to  do  justice  to  the  whole  by  any  one  editor;  and  each  of  the  sec 
tions  must  make  its  own  contributions,  in  its  own  time,  and  accord 
ing  to  its  several  opportunities.  There  will  be  room  enough  for  all ; 
and  each,  I  doubt  not,  will  possess  its  special  claims  to  recognition 
and  reward. 

His  own  collections,  made  during  the  progress  of  the  war,  from 
the  newspapers,  chiefly,  of  South  Carolina,  Virginia,  and  Georgia, 
were  copious.  Of  these,  many  have  been  omitted  from  this  collec 
tion,  which,  he  trusts,  will  some  day  find  another  medium  of  publi 
cation.  He  has  been  able  to  ascertain  the  authorship,  in  many 
cases,  of  these  writings ;  but  must  regret  still  that  so  many  others, 
under  a  too  fastidious  delicacy,  deny  that  their  names  should  be 
made  known.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  they  will  hereafter  be  sup 
plied.  To  the  numerous  ladies  who  have  so  frankly  and  gener 
ously  contributed  to  this  collection,  by  sending  originals  and 
making  copies,  he  begs  to  offer  his  most  grateful  acknowledgments. 

A  large  proportion  of  the  pieces  omitted  are  of  elegiac  character. 
Of  this  class,  he  could  find  a  place  for  such  pieces  only  as  were 
dedicated  to  the  most  distinguished  of  fie  persons  foiling  in  battle, 
or  such  as  are  marked  by  the  higher  characteristics  of  poetry — 
freshness,  thought,  and  imagination.  But  many  of  the  omitted 
pieces  are  quite  worthy  of  preservation.  Much  space  has  not  been 
given  to  that  class  of  songs,  cam})  catches,  or  marching  ballads, 
which  are  so  numerous  in  the  "Rebel  Rhymes"  of  Mr.  Moore. 
The  songs  which  are  most  popular  are  rarely  such  as  may  claim 
poetical  rank.  They  depend  upon  lively  music  and  certain  spirit- 
stirring  catchwords,  and  are  rarely  worked  up  with  much  regard 


v|ii  PREFACE. 

to  art  or  even  propriety.  Still,  many  of  these  should  have  found  a 
place  in  this  volume,  had  adequate  space  been  allowed  the  editor. 
It  is  his  desire,  as  well  as  that  of  the  publisher,  to  collect  and 
bind  together  these  fugitives  in  yet  another  publication.  He  will 
preserve  the  manuscripts  and  copies  of  all  unpublished  pieces,  with 
the  view  to  this  object— keeping  them  always  subject  to  the  wishes 
of  their  several  writers. 

At  the  close,  he  must  express  the  hope  that  these  poems  will  bo 
recognized,  not  only  as  highly  creditable  to  the  Southern  mind, 
but  as  truly  illustrative,  if  not  justificatory  of,  that  sentiment  and 
opinion  with  which  they  have  been  written  ;  which  sentiment  and 
opinion  have  sustained  their  people  through  a  war  unexampled  in 
its  horrors  in  modern  times,  and  which  has  fully  tested  their 
powers  of  endurance,  as  well  as  their  ability  in  creating  their  own 
resources,  under  all  reverses,  and  amidst  every  form  of  privation. 

W.  G.  S. 

BBOOKLYN,  September  8, 186d 


CONTENTS. 


PAG» 


Ethnogenesis  ...............................  Henry  Timrod    7 

God  Save  the  South  ........................  George  H.  Miles  11 

"  You  can  never  win  them  back"  ......  Catherine  M.  Warfield  1  4 

The  Southern  Cross  ...........................  E.  K.  Blunt  16 

South  Carolina  ...........................  8.  Henry  Diclcson  18 

The  New  Star  ..............................  B.  M.  Anderson  20 

The  Irrepressible  Conflict  .................    .......  Tyrtcum  21 

The  Southern  Republic  ....................  Olivia  T.  Thomas  22 

"Is  there  then  no  Hope?"  ................  Charleston  Courier  25 

The  Fate  of  the  Republic  ................  Charleston  Mercury  27 

The  Voice  of  the  South  .................  Charleston  Mercury  31 

The  Oath  of  Freedom  ...................  James  Barron  Hope  35 

The  Battle  Cry  of  the  South  ..............  James  R.  Randall  37 

Sonnet  ...............................  Charleston  Mercury  40 

Seventy-six  and  Sixty-one  .....................  J.  W.  Overall  41 

"Reddato  Gladiurn''  .......................  Richmond  Whig  42 

"  Nay,  keep  the  Sword"  ....................  Richmond  Whig  44 

Coercion  ................................  John  R.  Thompson  46 

A  Cry  to  Arms  ............................  Henry  Timrod  49 

Jackson,  the  Alexandria  Martyr  .............  W.  H.  Holcombe  51 

The  Martyr  of  Alexandria  ................  James  W.  Simmons  52 

The  Blessed  Union  ......................  Charleston  Mercury  53 

The  Fire  of  Freedom  ...........  ............  Richmond  paper  54 

Hymn  to  the  National  Flag  ...............  Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  55 

Sonnet—moral  of  party  ----  .............  Charleston  Mercury  57 

Our  Faith  in  '61  .............................  A.  J.  Requier  58 

"  Wouldst  thou  have  me  love  thee  ?"  ..........  Alex.  B.  Meek  61 

1* 


r\«;E 


Enlisted  to-day Anonymous  63 

"My  Maryland" James  R.  Randall  Go 

The  Boy  Soldier, Ltuly  of  Savannah  08 

The  good  old  cause John  D.  Phelan  70 

Manassas Catherine  M.  Warficld  72 

Virginia 11  M.  74 

The  War  Christian's  Thanksgiving: $•  Teackle  Wallis  75 

Sonnet '. Charleston  Mercury  77 

Marching  to  Death J.  Herbert  Sass  78 

Charleston Henry  Timrod  81 

Charleston Paul  H.  Hayne  84 

"  Ye  Men  of  Alabama" JHO.  D.  Phelan  87 

Nee  temere,  nee  timMa Annie  0.  Ketchum  89 

Dixie Albert  Pike  92 

The  Old  Rifleman Frank  Ticknor  95 

Battle  Hymn Charleston  Mercury  97 

Kentucky,  she  is  sold J.  R.  Earrlck  98 

The  Ship  of  State Charleston  Mercury  99 

"  In.  his  blanket  on  the  ground? Caroline  II.  Gervais  100 

The  Mountain  Partisan Charleston  Mercury  104 

The  Cameo  Bracelet    James  R.  Randall  106 

Zollicoffer Henry  L.  Flash  108 

Beauregard Catherine  M.  Warjield  109 

South  Carolina Gossypium  111 

Carolina Henry  Timrod  113 

My  Mother  Land Paul  H.  Hayne  117 

Joe  Johnston Jno.  R.  Thompson  123 

Over  the  River Jane  T.  H.  Cross  126 

The  Confederacy Jane  T.  H.  Cross  128 

President  Davis Jane  T.  //.  Cross  130 

The  Rifleman's  Fancy  Shot Anonymous  132 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac" 133 

Prize  Address Henry  Timrod  136 

The  Battle  of  Richmond Gen.  Herbert  Sass  141 

The  Guerrillas. .  .  .8.  Teackle  Wallis  146 


CONTENTS.  3 

I'AGK 

A  Farewell  to  Pope Jno.  R.  Thompson  149 

Sonnet — Public  Prayer  ...    South  Carolinian  151 

Battle  of  Belmont J.  A.  Signaigo  1 52 

Vicksburg . Paul  II.  Hayne  1 56 

Ballad  of  the  War G.  H.  Sass  159 

The  two  Annies .Henry  Timrod  164 

The  Legion  of  Honor If.  L.  Flash  166 

Clouds  in  the  West A.  J.  Requier  1 68 

Georgia !  My  Georgia ! Carrie  B.  Sinclair  170 

Song  of  the  Texan  Hangers Anonymous  172 

Kentucky  required  to  yield  her  arms Anonymous  175 

There's  life  in  the  old  land  yet J.  R.  Randall  176 

"  Tell  the  boys  the  War  is  ended" Emily  J.  Moore  178 

The  Southern  Cross St.  George  Tucker  180 

England's  Neutrality John  R.  Thompson  181 

Close  the  Ranks J.  L.  0' Sullivan  188 

The  Sea-kings  of  the  South Ed.  C.  Bruce  190 

The  Return Anonymous  195 

Our  Christinas  Hymn J.  DicTcson  Bruns  196 

Charleston MiM  E.  B.  Cheesborough  200 

Gathering  Song Annie  Chambers  Retchum  201 

Christmas Henry  Timrod  203 

A  Prayer  for  Peace S.  Teaclcle  Wallis  206 

The  Band  in  the  Pines Jno.  Esten  Cooke  209 

At  Fort  Pillow James  R.  Randall  2 1 0 

From  the  Rapidan Anonymous  214 

Song  of  our  Southland Mrs.  Mary  Ware  2 1 5 

Sonnets Paul  H.  Hayne  217 

Hospital  Duties Charleston  Courier  218 

They  cry  Peace,  Peace!  Mrs.  Alethea  S.  Burroughs  221 

Ballad— "What!  have  ye  thought?" Charleston  Mercury  223 

Missing Anonymous  225 

Ode — "•  Souls  of  Heroes" Charleston  Mercury  227 

Jackson Henry  L.  Flash  229 

Captain  Maffit's  Ballad Charleston  Mercury  230 


4  CONTKNTfi. 

PAGH 

Melt  the  Bells F-  T.  Roclcett  234 

John  Pelham : James  R.  Randall  235 

u  Ye  batteries  of  Beauregard" J.  R.  Barrick  237 

u  When  Peace  returns" Olicui  T.  Thomas  239 

The  Right  above  the  Wrong /.  W.  Overall  241 

Carmen  Triumphale Henry  Timrod  243 

The  Fiend  Unbound Charleston  Mercury  246 

The  Unknown  Dead Henry  Timrod  251 

Ode "  Do  ye  quail  ?" W.  Gilmore  Simms  252 

Ode— "Our  City  by  the  Sea*' Ibid.  255 

The  Lone  Sentry J.  R.  Randall  261 

My  Soldier  Brother Sallie  E.  Bollard  263 

Seaweeds Annie  Chambers  Ketchum  265 

The  Salkehatohie Emily  J.  Moore  207 

The  Broken  Mug Jno.  Esten  Cooke  209 

Carolina  Anna  Peyre  Dinnies  275 

Our  Martyrs Paul  II.  Hayne  277 

Cleburne Mrs.  M.  A.  Jennings  280 

The  Texan  Marseillaise James  Harris  281 

" O,  temporal  O,  mores" T.  Dickson  Bruns  283 

Our  Departed  Comrades J.  M.  Shirer  286 

No  Land  like  Ours J.  R.  Barrick  288 

The  Angel  of  the  Church W.  Gilmore  Simms  290 

Ode— "Shell  the  old  City" Ibid.  295 

The  Enemy  shall  never  reach  your  City.  .  Charleston  Mercury  801 

War  Waves Catherine  G.  Poyas  304 

OldMoultrie Ibid.  306 

Only  one  killed Julia  L.  Key  en  .-508 

Land  of  King  Cotton J.  A.  Signaigo  810 

If  you  love  me Ibid.  311 

The  Cotton  Boll Henry  Timrod  313 

Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor Paul  H.  Hayne  319 

Fort  Wagner W.  Gilmore  Simms  323 

Sumter  in  Ruins Ibid.  325 

Morris  Island Ibid.  327 

Promise  of  Spring South  Carolinian  829 


CONTENTS.  5 

PAGE 

Spring Henry  Timrod  331 

Ohickamauga Richmond  Sentinel  334 

In  Memoriam— Bishop  Polk Viola  388 

Stonewall  Jackson H.  L.  Flash  340 

Stonewall  Jackson — a  Dirge Anonymous  341 

Beaufort W.  J.  Gray  son  343 

The  Empty  Sleeve J.  R.  Bagby  346 

Cotton  Burners'  Hymn Memphis  Appeal  349 

Beading  the  List •  •  •  • Anonymous  351 

His  Last  Words Anonymous  353 

Charge  of  Hagood's  Brigade J.  Blythe  Allston  354 

Carolina Jno.  A.  Wagener  357 

Savannah Alethea  S.  Burroughs  359 

"Old  Betsy" John  Killian  361 

Awake !  Arise ! G.  W.  Archer  362 

Albert  Sydney  Johnston Mary  Jervey  364 

Eulogy  of  the  Dead B.  F.  Porter  865 

The  Beaufort  Exile Anonymous  367 

Somebody's  Darling Miss  Maria  LaCoste  369 

John  Pegram W.  Gordon  McCabe  371 

Captives  Going  Home Anonymous  373 

Heights  of  Mission  Ridge J.  A.  Signaigo  375 

Our  Left  at  Manassas  ...    Anonymous  376 

On  to  Richmond J.  R.  Thompson  378 

Turner  A  shby Ibid.  383 

Captain  Latane Ibid.  385 

The  Men Maurice  Bell  387 

The  Rebel  Soldier Kentucky  Girl  389 

Battle  of  Hampton  Roads Ossinn  D.  Gorman  391 

;' Is  this  a  time  to  dance ?" Anonymous  393 

The  Maryland  Line J.  D.  McCabe,  Jr.  395 

I  give  my  Soldier  Boy  a  blade H.  M.  L.  397 

Sonnet — Avatar  of  Hell 398 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way A  nonymous  399 

The  Silent  March Anonymous  401 

Pro  Memoria .   Ina  M.  Porter  403 


0  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

Southern  Homes  in  Ruins R.  B.  Vance  405 

Rappahannock  Army  Song /.  C.  McLemore  407 

Soldier  in  the  Rain Julia  L.  Keyes  41 0 

My  Country W.  D.  Porter  412 

After  the  Battle Miss  Agnes  Leonard  413 

Our  Confederate  Dead Lady  of  Augusta  419 

Ye  Cavaliers  of  Dixie B.  F.  Porter  420 

Song  of  Spring Jno.  A.  Wagener  428 

What  the  Village  Bell  said 7tx>.  (\  McLemore  424 

The  Tree,  the  Serpent,  and  the  Star A.  P.  Gray  427 

Southern  War  Hymn Tun.  A.  Wagener  427 

The  Battle  Rainbow J.  R.  Thompson  430 

Stonewall  Jackson Richmond  Broadside  432 

Dirge  for  Ashby Mrs.  M.  J.  Preston  430 

Sacrifice Charleston  Mercury  436 

Sonnet llnd.  437 

Grave  of  A.  Sydney  Johnston /.  B.  Synott  438 

u  Not  doubtful  of  your  Fatherland" Charleston  Mercury  439 

Only  a  Soldier's  grave 8.  A.  Jonas  441 

The  Guerrilla  Martyrs , Charleston  Mercury  442 

"Libera  Nos,  0  Domine !'' James  Barron  Hope  445 

The  Knell  shall  sound  once  more Charleston  Mercury  449 

Gcndron  Palmer,  of  the  Holcombe  Legion Ina  M.  Porter  450 

Mumford,  the  Martyr  of  New  Orleans Ibid.  452 

The  Foe  at  the  Gates — Charleston J.  Dickson  Bruns  454 

Savannah  Fallen Alethea  S.  Burroughs  457 

Bull  Run — A  Parody Anonymous  450 

"  Stack  Arms" Jos.  Blythe  Allston  460 

Doffing  the  Gray Lieutenant  Falligant  461 

In  the  Land  where  we  were  dreaming D.  B.  Lucas  462 

Ballad — "Yes,  build  your  Walls" Charleston  Mercury  466 

The  Lines  around  Petersburg Samuel  Davis  467 

All  is  gone FADETTE — Memphis  Appeal  470 

Bowing  her  Head Savannah  Broadside  474 

The  Confederate  Flag Anna  Peyre  Dinnies  478 

Ashes  of  Glory A.  J.  Requier  480 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


ETHNOGENESIS. 

BY    HENRY    TIMROD,    OP    S.  C. 

WRITTEN    DURING   THE   MEETING    OF   THE   FIRST   SOUTHERN   CONGRESS,    AT 
MONTGOMERY,    FEBRUARY,    1861. 


HATH  not  the  morning  dawned  with  added  light  ? 

And  shall  not  evening  call  another  star 

Out  of  the  infinite  regions  of  the  night, 

To  mark  this  day  in  Heaven  ?     At  last,  we  are 

A  nation  among  nations  ;  and  the  world 

Shall  soon  behold  in  many  a  distant  port 

Another  flag  unfurled  ! 

Now,  come  what  may,  whose  favor  need  we  court  ? 
And,  under  God,  whose  thunder  need  we  fear  ? 

Thank  Him  who  placed  us  here 
Beneath  so  kind  a  sky — the  very  sun 
Takes  part  with  us  ;  and  on  our  errands  run 
All  breezes  of  the  ocean  ;  dew  and  rain 
Do  noiseless  battle  for  us  ;  and  the  Year, 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  all  the  gentle  daughters  in  her  train, 
March  in  our  ranks,  and  in  our  service  wield 

Long  spears  of  golden  grain  ! 
A  yellow  blossom  as  her  fairy  shield, 
June  flings  her  azure  banner  to  the  wind, 

While  in  the  order  of  their  birth 
Her  sisters  pass;  and  many  an  ample  field 
Grows  white  beneath  their  steps,  till  now,  behold 

Its  endless  sheets  unfold 

THE  sxow  OF  SOUTHERN  SUMMERS  !     Let  the  earth 
Rejoice  !  beneath  those  fleeces  soft  and  warm 
Our  happy  land  shall  sleep 
In  a  repose  as  deep 
As  if  we  lay  intrenched  behind 
Whole  leagues  of  Russian  ice  and  Arctic  storm  ! 


n. 

And  what  if,  mad  with  wrongs  themselves  have  wrought, 

In  their  own  treachery  caught, 

By  their  own  fears  made  bold, 

And  leagued  with  him  of  old, 
Who  long  since,  in  the  limits  of  the  North, 
Set  up  his  evil  throne,  and  warred  with  God — 
What  if,  both  mad  and  blinded  in  their  rage, 
Our  foes  should  fling  us  down  their  mortal  gage, 
And  with  a  hostile  step  profane  our  sod  ! 
We  shall  not  shrink,  my  brothers,  but  go  forth 
To  meet  them,  marshalled  by  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 


ETHNOGENESIS. 

And  overshadowed  by  the  mighty  ghosts 
Of  Moultrie  and  of  Eutaw — who  shall  foil 
Auxiliars  such  as  these  ?     Nor  these  alone, 

But  every  stock  and  stone 

Shall  help  us  ;  but  the  very  soil, 
And  all  the  generous  wealth  it  gives  to  toil, 
And  all  for  which  we  love  our  noble  land, 
Shall  fight  beside,  and  through  us,  sea  and  strand, 

The  heart  of  woman,  and  her  hand, 
Tree,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  influence, 

Gentle,  or  grave,  or  grand  ; 

The  winds  in  our  defence 
Shall  seem  to  blow  ;  to  us  the  hills  shall  lend 

Their  firmness  and  their  calm  ; 
And  in  our  stiffened  sinews  we  shall  blend 

The  strength  of  pine  and  palm  ! 


in. 

Nor  would  we  shun  the  battle-ground, 
Though  weak  as  we  are  strong  ; 
Call  up  the  clashing  elements  around, 
And  test  the  right  and  wrong  ! 
On  one  side,  creeds  that  dare  to  teach 
What  Christ  and  Paul  refrained  to  preach  ; 
Codes  built  upon  a  broken  pledge, 
And  charity  that  whets  a  poniard's  edge  ; 
Fair  schemes  that  leave  the  neighboring  poor 
To  starve  and  shiver  at  the  schemer's  door, 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

While  in  the  world's  most  liberal  ranks  enrolled, 
He  turns  some  vast  philanthropy  to  gold  ; 
Religion  taking  every  mortal  form 
But  that  a  pure  and  Christian  faith  makes  warm, 
Where  not  to  vile  fanatic  passion  urged, 
Or  not  in  vague  philosophies  submerged, 
Repulsive  with  all  Pharisaic  leaven, 
And  making  laws  to  stay  the  laws  of  Heaven  I 
And  on  the  other,  scorn  of  sordid  gain, 
Unblemished  honor,  truth  without  a  stain, 
Faith,  justice,  reverence,  charitable  wealth, 
And,  for  the  poor  and  humble,  laws  which  give, 
Not  the  mean  right  to  buy  the  right  to  live, 

But  life,  and  home,  and  health  ! 
To  doubt  the  end  were  want  of  trust  in  God, 

Who,  if  he  has  decreed 
That  we  must  pass  a  redder  sea 
Than  that  which  rang  to  Miriam's  holy  glee, 

Will  surely  raise  at  need 

A  Moses  with  his  rod  ! 

IV. 

But  let  our  fears — if  fears  we  have — be  still, 
And  turn  us  to  the  future  !     Could  we  climb 
Some  mighty  Alp,  and  view  the  coming  time, 
The  rapturous  sight  would  fill 

Our  eyes  with  happy  tears  ! 
Not  only  for  the  glories  which  the  years 
Shall  bring  us  ;  not  for  lands  from  sea  to  sea, 


GOD  SAVE  THE  SOUTH.  \\ 

And  wealth,  and  power,  and  peace,  though  these  shall  be  ; 
But  for  the  distant  peoples  we  shall  bless, 
Arid  the  hushed  murmurs  of  a  world's  distress  : 
For,  to  give  labor  to  the  poor, 

The  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 

And  save  from  want  and  crime  the  humblest  door, 
Is  one  among  the  many  ends  for  which 

God  makes  us  great  and  rich  ! 
The  hour  perchance  is  not  yet  wholly  ripe 
When  all  shall  own  it,  but  the  type 
Whereby  we  shall  be  known  in  every  land 
Is  that  vast  gulf  which  laves  our  Southern  strand, 
And  through  the  cold,  uritempered  ocean  pours 
Its  genial  streams,  that  far-off  Arctic  shores 
May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened  breeze 
Strange  tropic  warmth  and  hints  of  summer  seas. 


GOD  SAVE  THE  SOUTH. 

GEORGE  H.  MILES,  OF  BALTIMORE. 

GOD  save  the  South  ! 
God  save  the  South  ! 
Her  altars  and  firesides — 

God  save  the  South  I 
Now  that  the  war  is  nigh — » 
Now  that  we  arm  to  die — 
Chanting  our  battle-cry, 

Freedom  or  Death  ! 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

God  be  our  shield  ! 
At  home  or  a-field, 
Stretch  Thine  arm  over  us, 

Strengthen  and  save  ! 
What  though  they're  five  to  one, 
Forward  each  sire  and  son, 
Strike  till  the  war  is  done, 

Strike  to  the  grave. 


God  make  the  right 
Stronger  than  might  ! 
Millions  would  trample  us 

Down  in  their  pride. 
Lay,  thou,  their  legions  low  ; 
Roll  back  the  ruthless  foe  ; 
Let  the  proud  spoiler  know 

God's  on  our  side  ! 


Hark  !  honor's  call, 
Summoning  all — 
Summoning  all  of  us 

Up  to  the  strife. 
Sons  of  the  South,  awake  ! 
Strike  till  the  brand  shall  break  ! 
Strike  for  dear  honor's  sake, 

Freedom  and  Life  ! 


GOD  SAVE  THE  SOUTH.  13 

Rebels  before 

Were  our  fathers  of  yore  ; 

Rebel,  the  glorious  name 

Washington  bore. 
Why,  then,  be  ours  the  same 
Title  he  snatched  from  shame  ; 
Making  it  first  in  fame, 

Odious  no  more. 


War  to  the  hilt  ! 
Theirs  be  the  guilt, 
Who  fetter  the  freeman 

To  ransom  the  slave. 
Up,  then,  and  undismayed, 
Sheathe  not  the  battle-blade, 
Till  the  last  foe  is  laid 

Low  in  the  grave. 


God  save  the  South  1 
God  save  the  South  ! 
Dry  the  dim  eyes  that  now 

Follow  our  path. 
Still  let  the  light  feet  rove 
Safe  through  the  orange  grove  ; 
Still  keep  the  land  we  love 

Safe  from  all  wrath. 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

God  save  the  South  ! 
God  save  the  South  ! 
Her  altars  and  firesides — 

God  save  the  South  ! 
For  the  rude  war  is  nigh, 
And  we  must  win  or  die  ; 
Chanting  our  battle-cry 

Freedom  or  Death  ! 


YOU  CAN  NEVER  WIN  THEM  BACK. 

BY    CATHERINE    M.    WARFIELD. 

You  can  never  win  them  back, 

never  !  never  1 

Though  they  perish  on  the  track 

of  your  endeavor  ; 

Though  their  corses  strew  the  earth 

That  smiled  upon  their  birth, 

And  blood  pollutes  each  hearth 
stone  forever  ! 


They  have  risen,  to  a  man 

stern  and  fearless  ; 
Of  your  curses  and  your  ban          t 

they  arc  careless. 


YOU  CAN  NEVi-R    WIN  THEM  BAGK.  15 

Every  hand  is  on  its  knife  ; 
Every  gun  is  primed  for  strife  ; 
Every  palm  contains  a  life 

high  and  peerless  ! 

You  have  no  such  blood  as  theirs 

for  the  shedding, 

In  the  veins  of  Cavaliers 

was  its  heading. 

You  have  no  such  stately  men 

In  your  abolition  den, 

To  march  through  foe  and  fen, 

nothing  dreading. 

They  may  fall  before  the  fire 

of  your  legions, 

Paid  in  gold  for  murd'rous  hire — 

bought  allegiance  1 

But  for  every  drop  you  shed 

You  shall  leave  a  mound  of  dead  ; 

And  the  vultures  shall  be  fed 

in  our  regions. 


But  the  battle  to  the  strong 

is  not  given, 

While  the  Judge  of  right  and  wrong 
sits  in  heaven  ! 


16 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  the  God  of  David  still 
Guides  each  pebble  by  His  will  ; 
There  are  giants  yet  to  kill — 

wrongs  unshriven. 


THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS. 

BY    E.    K.    BLUNT. 

IN  the  name  of  God  !     Amen  ! 

Stand  for  our  Southern  rights  ; 
On  our  side,  Southern  men, 

The  God  of  battles  fights  I 
Fling  the  invaders  far — 

Hurl  back  their  work  of  woe — 
The  voice  is  the  voice  of  a  brother, 

But  the  hands  are  the  hands  of  a  foe. 
They  come  with  a  trampling  army, 

Invading  our  native  sod — 
Stand,  Southrons  !  fight  and  conquer, 

In  the  name  of  the  mighty  God  1 

They  are  singing  our  song  of  triumph,* 
Which  proclaimed  us  proud  and  free — 

While  breaking  away  the  heartstrings 
Of  our  nation's  harmony. 

*  The  Star  Spangled  Banner.     Written  by  F.  S.  Key,  of  Balti 
more  ;  all  whose  descendants  are  Confederates. 


THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS.  17 

Sadly  it  floateth  from  us, 

Sighing  o'er  land  and  wave  ; 
Till,  mute  on  the  lips  of  the  poet, 

It  sleeps  in  his  Southern  grave. 
Spirit  and  song  departed  ! 

Minstrel  and  minstrelsy  I 
We  mourn  ye,  heavy  hearted, — 

But  we  will — we  will  be  free  I 


They  are  waving  our  flag  above  us, 

With  the  despot's  tyrant  will  ; 
With  our  blood  they  have  stained  its  colors, 

And  they  call  it  holy  still. 
With  tearful  eyes,  but  steady  hand, 

We'll  tear  its  stripes  apart, 
And  fling  them,  like  broken  fetters, 

That  may  not  bind  the  heart. 
But  we'll  save  our  stars  of  glory, 

In  the  might  of  the  sacred  sign 
Of  Him  who  has  fixed  forever 

One  "  Southern  Cross"  to  shine. 


Stand,  Southrons  !  fight  and  conquer 
Solemn,  and  strong,  and  sure  ! 

The  fight  shall  not  be  longer 
Than  God  shall  bid  endure. 

By  the  life  that  but  yesterday 

Waked  with  the  infant's  breath  ! 
2 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

By  the  feet  which,  ere  morning,  may 
Tread  to  the  soldier's  death  I 

By  the  blood  which  cries  to  heaven — 
Crimson  upon  our  sod  1 

Stand,  Southrons  !  fight  and  conquer, 
In  the  name  of  the  mighty  God  ! 


SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

December  20, 1860. 
S.    HENRY   DICKSON. 

THE  deed  is  done  !  the  die  is  cast 
The  glorious  Rubicon  is  passed  : 
Hail,  Carolina  1  free  at  last  ! 


Strong  in  the  right,  I  see  her  stand 
Where  ocean  laves  the  shelving  sand  ; 
Her  own  Palmetto  decks  the  strand. 


•  She  turns  aloft  her  flashing  eye  ; 
Radiant,  her  lonely  star*  on  high 
Shines  clear  amidst  the  darkening  sky. 

*  The  fia<r  showed  a  star  within  a  crescent  or  new  moon. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA. 


Silent,  along1  those  azure  deeps 
Its  course  her  silver  crescent  keeps, 
And  in  soft  light  the  landscape  steeps. 


Fling  forth  her  banner  to  the  gale  ! 
Let  all  the  hosts  of  earth  assail, — 
Their  fury  and  their  force  shall  fail. 

Echoes  the  wide  resounding  shore, 
With  voice  above  th'  Atlantic  roar, 
Her  sons  proclaim  her  free  once  more  I 


Oh,  land  of  heroes  !     Spartan  State 
In  numbers  few,  in  daring  great, 
Thus  to  affront  the  frowns  of  fate  I 


And  while  mad  triumph  rules  the  hour, 
And  thickening  clouds  of  menace  lower, 
Bear  back  the  tide  of  tyrant  power. 


With  steadfast  courage,  faltering  never, 
Sternly  resolved,  her  bonds  we  sever  : 
Hail,  Carolina  1  free  forever  1 


20  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


THE  NEW  STAR. 

BY    B.    M.    ANDERSON. 


ANOTHER  star  arisen  ;  another  flag  unfurled  ; 
Another  name  inscribed  among  the  nations  of  the  world  ; 
Another  mighty  struggle  'gainst  a  tyrant's  fell  decree, 
And  again  a  burdened  people  have  uprisen,  and  are  free. 


The  spirit  of  the  fathers  in  the  children  liveth  yet  ; 

Liveth  still  the  olden  blood  which  dimmed  the  foreign 
bayonet  ; 

And  the  fathers  fought  for  freedom,  and  the  sons  for  free 
dom  fight  ; 

Their  God  was  with  the  fathers — and  is  still  the  God  of 
right  ! 


Behold  !  the  skies  are  darkened  !     A  gloomy  cloud  hath 

lowered  ! 
Shall  it  break  before  the  sun  of  peace,  or  spread  in  rage 

impowered  ? 
Shall   we  have  the  smile  of  friendship,  or  shall  it  be  the 

blow  ? 
Shall  it  be  the  right  hand  to  the  friend,  or  the  red  hand  to 

the  foe  ? 


THE  IRREPRESSIBLE  CONFLICT.  21 

In  peaceful  ness  we  wish  to  live,  but  not  in  slavish  fear  ; 
In  peacefulness  we  dare  not  die,  dishonored  on  our  bier. 
To  our  allies  of  the  Northern  land  we  offer  heart  and  hand, 
But  if  they  scorn  our  friendship — then  the  banner  and  the 
brand  ! 

Honor  to  the  new-born  nation  !  and  honor  to  the  brave  ! 
A  country  freed  from  thraldom,  or  a  soldier's  honored  grave. 
Every  step  shall  be  contested  ;  every  rivulet  run  red, 
And  the  invader,  should  he  conquer,  find  the  conquered  in 
the  dead. 

But  victory  shall  follow  where  the  sons  of  freedom  go, 
And  the  signal  for  the  onset  be  the  death-knell  of  the  foe  ; 
And  hallowed  shall  the  spot  be  where  he  was  so  bravely 

met, 
And  the  star  which  yonder  rises,  rises  never  more  to  set. 


THE  IRREPRESSIBLE  CONFLICT. 

TYRT^EUS. — Charleston  Mercury. 

THEN  welcome  be  it,  if  indeed  it  be 

The  Irrepressible  Conflict  !     Let  it  come  ; 
There  will  be  mitigation  of  the  doom, 
If,  battling  to  the  last,  our  sires  shall  see 
Their  sons  contending  for  the  homes  made  free 
In  ancient  conflict  with  the  foreign  foe  ! 


22 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

If  those  who  call  us  brethren  strike  the  blow, 
No  common  conflict  shall  the  invader  know  ! 
War  to  the  knife,  and  to  the  last,  until 

The  sacred  land  we  keep  shall  overflow 
With  blood  as  sacred— valley,  wave,  and  hill, 
Or  the  last  enemy  finds  his  bloody  grave  ! 
Aye,  welcome  to  your  graves — or  ours  !     The  bravo 
May  perish,  but  ye  shall  not  bind  one  slave. 


THE   SOUTHERN  REPUBLIC. 

BY    OLIVIA   TULLY   THOMAS,  OF  MISSISSIPPI. 

IN  the  galaxy  of  nations, 

A  nation's  flag's  unfurled, 
Transcending  in  its  martial  pride 

The  nations  of  the  world. 
Though  born  of  war,  baptized  in  blood, 

Yet  mighty  from  the  time, 
Like  fabled  phoenix,  forth  she  stood — 

Dismembered,  yet  sublime. 


And  braver  heart,  and  bolder  hand, 
Ne'er  formed  a  fabric  fair 

As  Southern  wisdom  can  command, 
And  Southern  valor  rear. 


THE  SOUTHERN  REPUBLIC.  23 

Though  kingdoms  scorn  to  own  her  sway, 

Or  recognize  her  birth, 
The  land  blood-bought  for  Liberty 

Will  reign  supreme  on  earth. 


Clime  of  the  Sun  !  Home  of  the  Brave  ! 

Thy  sons  are  bold  and  free, 
And  pour  life's  crimson  tide  to  save 

Their  birthright,  Liberty ! 
Their  fertile  fields  and  sunny  plains 

That  yield  the  wealth  alone, 
That's  coveted  for  greedy  gains 

By  despots — and  a  throne  ! 

Proud  country  !  battling,  bleeding,  torn, 

Thy  altars  desolate  ; 
Thy  lovely  dark-eyed  daughters  mourn 

At  war's  relentless  fate  ; 
And  widow's  prayers,  and  orphan's  tears, 

Her  homes  will  consecrate, 
While  more  than  brass  or  marble  rears 

The  trophy  of  her  great. 

Oh  !  land  that  boasts  each  gallant  name 

Of  JACKSON,  JOHNSON,  LEE, 
And  hosts  of  valiant  sons,  whose  fame 

Extends  beyond  the  sea  ; 


24  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Far  rather  let  thy  plains  become, 
From  gulf  to  mountain  cave, 

One  honored  sepulchre  and  tomb, 
Than  we  the  tyrant's  slave  ! 


Fair,  favored  land  I  thou  mayst  be  free, 

Redeemed  by  blood  and  war  ; 
Through  agony  and  gloom  we  see 

Thy  hope — a  glimmering  star  ; 
Thy  banner,  too,  may  proudly  float, 

A  herald  on  the  seas — 
Thy  deeds  of  daring  worlds  remote 

Will  emulate  and  praise  ! 

But  who  can  paint  the  impulse  pure, 

That  thrills  and  nerves  thy  brave 
To  deeds  of  valor,  that  secure 

The  rights  their  fathers  gave  ? 
Oh  !  grieve  not,  hearts  ;  her  matchless  siam, 

Crowned  with  the  warrior's  wreath, 
From  beds  of  fame  their  proud  refrain 

Was  "  Liberty  or  Death  I" 


"IS  THERE,  THEN,  NO  HOPE  FOR  THE  NATIONS?"   25 


!IS  THERE,  THEN,  NO  HOPE  FOR  THE  NATIONS?1' 

CHARLESTON    COURIER. 

Is  there,  then,  no  hope  for  the  nations  ? 

Mnst  the  record  of  Time  be  the  same  ? 
And  shall  History,  in  all  her  narrations, 

Still  close  each  last  chapter  in  shame  ? 
Shall  the  valor  which  grew  to  be  glorious, 

Prove  the  shame,  as  the  pride  of  a  race  : 
And  a  people,  for  ages  victorious, 

Through  the  arts  of  the  chapman,  grow  base  ? 

Greek,  Hebrew,  Assyrian,  and  Roman, 

Each  strides  o'er  the  scene  and  departs  ! 
How  valiant  their  deeds  'gainst  the  foeman, 

How  wondrous  their  virtues  and  arts  ! 
Rude  valor,  at  first,  when  beginning, 

The  nation  through  blood  took  its  name ; 
Then  the  wisdom,  which  hourly  winning 

New  heights  in  its  march,  rose  to  Fame  ! 

How  noble  the  tale  for  long  ages, 
Blending  Beauty  with  courage  and  might  I 

What  Heroes,  what  Poets,  and  Sages, 
Made  eminent  stars  for  each  height ! 


20  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  KOUTU. 

While  their  people,  with  reverence  ample, 
Brought  tribute  of  praise  to  the  Great, 

Whose  wisdom  and  virtuous  example, 
Made  virtue  the  pride  of  the  State  ! 


Ours,  too,  was  as  noble  a  dawning1, 

With  hopes  of  the  Future  as  high : 
Great  men,  each  a  star  of  the  morning, 

Taught  us  bravely  to  live  and  to  die  ! 
We  fought  the  long  fight  with  our  foeman, 

And  through  trial — well-borne — won  a  name, 
Not  less  glorious  than  Grecian  or  Roman, 

And  worthy  as  lasting  a  fame  ! 


Shut  the  Book  !     We  must  open  another  ! 

0  Southron  !  if  taught  by  the  Past, 
Beware,  when  thou  choosest  a  brother, 

With  what  ally  thy  fortunes  are  cast  I 
Beware  of  all  foreign  alliance, 

Of  their  pleadings  and  pleasings  beware, 
Better  meet  the  old  snake  with  defiance, 

Than  find  in  his  charming  a  snare  ! 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  RL PUBLICS.  27 

THE   FATE   OF   THE   REPUBLICS. 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 

THUS,  the  grand  fabric  of  a  thousand  years — 
Rear'd  with  such  art  and  wisdom — by  a  race 
Of  giant  sires,  in  virtue  all  compact, 
Self-sacrificing  ;  having  grand  ideals 
Of  public  strength,  and  peoples  capable 
Of  great  conceptions  for  the  common  good, 
And  of  enduring  liberties,  kept  strong 
Through  purity ; — tumbles  and  falls  apart, 
Lacking  cement  in  virtue  ;  and  assaiPd 
Within,  without,  by  greed  of  avarice, 
And  vain  ambition  for  supremacy. 

So  fell  the  old  Republics — Gentile  and  Jew, 
Roman  and  Greek — such  evermore  the  record; 
Mix'd  glory  and  shame,  still  lapsing  into  greed, 
From  conquest  and  from  triumph,  into  fall ! 
The  glory  that  we  see  exchanged  for  guilt 
Might  yet  be  glory.     There  were  pride  enough, 
And  emulous  ambition  to  achieve, — 
Both  generous  powers,  when  coupled  with  endowment, 
To  do  the  work  of  States — and  there  were  courage 
And  sense  of  public  need,  and  public  welfare, — 
And  duty — in  a  brave  but  scattered  few, 
Throughout  the  States — had  these  been  credited 


og  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

To  combat  'gainst  the  popular  appetites. 

But  these  were  scorn'd  and  set  aside  for  naught, 

As  lacking  favor  with  the  popular  lusts  1 

They  found  reward  in  exile  or  in  death  ! 

And  he  alone  who  could  debase  his  spirit, 

And  file  his  mind  down  to  the  basest  nature 

Grew  capp'd  with  rule  ! — 


So,  with  the  lapse 

From  virtue,  the  g.reat  nation  forfeits  all 
The  pride  with  the  security — the  liberty, 
With  that  prime  modesty  which  keeps  the  heart 
Upright,  in  meek  subjection,  to  the  doubts 
That  wait  upon  Humanity,  and  teach 
Humility,  as  best  check  and  guaranty, 
Against  the  wolfish  greed  of  appetite! 
Worst  of  all  signs,  assuring  coming  doom, 
When  peoples  loathe  to  listen  to  the  praise 
Of  their  great  men;  and,  jealous  of  just  claims, 
Eagerly  set  upon  them  to  revile, 
And  banish  from  their  councils!     Worse  than  all 
When  the  great  man,  succumbing  to  the  mass, 
Yields  up  his  mind  as  a  low  instrument 
To  vulgar  fingers,  to  be  played  upon  : — 
Yields  to  the  vulgar  lure,  the  cunning  bribe 
Of  place  or  profit,  and  makes  sale  of  States 
To  Party! 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  REPUBLICS.  20 

Thus  and  then  are  States  subdued — 
'Till  one  vast  central  tyranny  upstarts, 
With  front  of  glittering  brass,  but  legs  of  clay; 
Insolent,  reckless  of  account  as  right, — 
While  lust  grows  license,  and  tears  off  the  robes 
From  justice;  and  makes  right  a  thing  of  mock; 
And  puts  a  foolscap  on  the  head  of  law, 
And  plucks  the  baton  of  authority 
From  his  right  hand,  and  breaks  it  o'er  his  head. 


So  rages  still  the  irresponsible  power, 
Using  the  madden'd  populace  as  hounds, 
To  hunt  down  freedom  where  she  seeks  retreat. 
The  ancient  history  becomes  the  new — 
The  ages  move  in  circles,  and  the  snake 
Ends  ever  with  his  tail  in  his  own  mouth. 
Thus  still  in  all  the  past ! — and  man  the  same 
In  all  the  ages — a  poor  thing  of  passion, 
Hot  greed,  and  miserable  vanity, 
And  all  infirmities  of  lust  and  error, 
Makes  of  himself  the  wretched  instrument 
To  murder  his  own  hope. 


So  empires  fall, — 
Past,  present,  and  to  come! — 

There  is  no  hope 
For  nations  or  peoples,  once  they  lapse  from  virtue 


30  H'.fA1    POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Arid  fail  in  modest  sense  of  what  they  are — 
Creatures  of  weakness,  whose  security 
Lies  ill  meek  resting  on  the  law  of  God, 
And  in  that  wise  humility  which  pleads 
Ever  for  his  guardian  watch  and  Government, 
Though  men  may  bear  the  open  signs  of  rule. 
Humility  is  safety!  could  men  learn 
The  law,  "  ne  sutor  ultra  crepidam," 
And  the  sagacious  cobbler,  at  his  last, 
Content  himself  with  paring  leather  down 
To  heel  and  instep,  nicely  fitting  parts, 
In  proper  adaptation,  to  the  foot, 
We  might  have  safety. 


Rightly  to  conceive 

What's  right,  and  limit  the  o'erreaching  will 
To  this  one  measure  only,  is  the  whole 
Of  that  grand  rule,  and  wise  necessity, 
Which  only  gives  us  safety. 


Where  a  State, 

Or  blended  States,  or  peoples,  pass  the  bounds 
Set  for  their  progress,  they  must  topple  and  fall 
Into  that  gulf  of  ruin  which  has  swallowed 
All  ancient  Empires,  States,  Republics  ;  all 
Perishing,  in  like  manner,  from  the  selfsame  cause  I 
The  terrible  conjunction  of  the  event, 


THE  VOIGE  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Close  with  the  provocation,  stands  apart, 
A  social  beacon  in  all  histories; 
And  yet  we  take  no  heed,  but  still  rush  on, 
Under  mixed  sway  of  greed  and  vanity, 
And  like  the  silly  boy  with  his  card-castle, 
Precipitate  to  ruin  as  we  build. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

TYRT^EUS. — Charleston  Mercury. 

'TWAS  a  goodly  boon  that  our  fathers  gave, 
And  fits  but  ill  to  be  held  by  the  slave; 
And  sad  were  the  thought,  if  one  of  our  band 
Should  give  up  the  hope  of  so  fair  a  land. 


But  the  hour  has  come,  and  the  times  that  tried 
The  souls  of  men  in  our  days  of  pride, 
Return  once  more,  and  now  for  the  brave, 
To  merit  the  boon  which  our  fathers  srave. 


And  if  there  be  one  base  spirit  who  stands 
Now,  in  our  peril,  with  folded  hands, 
Let  his  grave  at  once  in  the  soil  be  wrought, 
With  the  sword  with  which  his  old  father  fought. 


32  WAR    POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

An  oath  sublime  should  the  freeman  take, 
Still  braving  the  fight  and  the  felon  stake, — 
The  oath  that  his  sires  brought  over  the  sea, 
When  they  pledged  their  swords  to  Liberty! 


'Twas  a  goodly  oath,  and  in  Heaven's  own  sight, 
They  battled  and  bled  in  behalf  of  the  right; 
'Twas  hallowed  by  God  with  the  holiest  sign, 
And  seal'd  with  the  blood  of  your  sires  and  mine. 


We  cannot  forget,  and  we  dare  not  forego, 
The  holy  duty  to  them  that  we  owe, 
The  duty  that  pledges  the  soul  of  the  son 
To  keep  the  freedom  his  sire  hath  won. 


To  suffer  no  proud  transgressor  to  spoil 
One  right  of  our  homes,  or  one  foot  of  our  soil, 
One  privilege  pluck  from  our  keeping,  or  dare 
Usurp  one  blessing  'tis  fit  that  we  share! 


Art  ready  for  this,  dear  brother,  who  still 
Keep'st  Washington's  bones  upon  Vernon's  hill  ? 
Art  ready  for  this,  dear  brother,  whose  ear, 
Should  ever  the  voices  of  Mecklenberg  hear  ? 


THE   VOICE  OF  THE  SOUTH.  33 

Thou  art  ready,  I  know,  brother  nearest  my  heart, 
Son  of  Eutaw  and  Ashley,  to  do  thy  part ; 
The  sword  and  the  rifle  are  bright  in  thy  hands, 
And  waits  but  the  word  for  the  flashing  of  brands! 

And  thou,  by  Savannah's  broad  valleys, — and  thou 
Where  the  Black  Warrior  murmurs  in  echoes  the  vow; 
And  thou,  youngest  sou  of  our  sires,  who  roves 
Where  Apala-chicola*  glides  through  her  groves. 

Nor  shall  Tennessee  pause,  when  like  voice  from  the  steep, 
The  great  South  shall  summon  her  sons  from  their  sieep; 
Nor  Kentucky  be  slow,  when  our  trumpet  shall  call, 
To  tear  down  the  rifle  that  hangs  on  her  wall! 

Oh,  sound,  to  awaken  the  dead  from  their  graves, 

The  will  that  would  thrust  us  from  place  for  our  slaves, 

That,  by  fraud  which  lacks  courage,  and  plea  that  lacks 

truth, 
Would  rob  us  of  right  without  reason  or  ruth. 

Dost  thou  hearken,  brave  Creole,  as  fearless  as  strong, 
Nor  rouse  thee  to  combat  the  infamous  wrong  ? 
Ye  hear  it,  I  know,  in  the  depth  of  your  souls, 
Valiant  race,  through  whose  valley  the  great  river  rolls. 


*  The  reader  will  place  the  accent,  on  the  ante-penultimate,  which 
affbrds  not  only  the  most  musical,  but  the  correct  pronunciation. 


34  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

At  last  ye  are  wakened,  all  rising  at  length, 
In  the  passion  of  pride,  in  the  fulness  of  strength ; 
And  now  let  the  struggle  begin  which  shall  see, 
If  the  son,  like  the  sire,  is  fit  to  be  free. 


We  are  sworn  to  the  State,  from  our  fathers  that  came, 

To  welcome  the  ruin,  but  never  the  shame; 

To  yield  not  a  foot  of  our  soil,  nor  a  right, 

While  the  soul  and  the  sword  are  still  fit  for  the  fight. 


Then,  brothers,  your  hands  and  your  hearts,  while  we  draw 
The  bright  sword  of  right,  on  the  charter  of  law; — 
Here  the  record  was  writ  by  our  fathers,  and  here, 
To  keep,  with  the  sword,  that  old  record,  we  swear. 


Let  those  who  defile  and  deface  it,  be  sure, 
No  longer  their  wrong  or  their  fraud  we  endure ; 
We  will  scatter  in  scorn  every  link  of  the  chain, 
With  which  they  would  fetter  our  free  souls  in  vain, 


How  goodly  and  bright  were  its  links  at  the  first ! 
How  loathly  and  foul,  in  their  usage  accurst  I 
We  had  worn  it  in  pride  while  it  honor'd  the  brave. 
But  we  rend  it,  when  only  grown  fit  for  the  slave. 


THE  OATH  OF  FREEDOM. 


35 


THE  OATH  OF  FREEDOM. 

BY   JAMES    BARRON    HOPE. 

u  Libwty  is  always  won  where  there  exists  the  unconquerable  will 
to  lefree." 

BORN  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven  we  will  be  free  ! 
By  all  the  stars  which  burn  on  high — 
By  the  green  earth — the  mighty  sea — 
By  God's  unshaken  majesty, 
We  will  be  free  or  die  I 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll  ! 
Let  all  the  trumpets  blow  I 
Mind,  heart,  and  soul, 
We  spurn  control 
Attempted  by  a  foe  ! 


Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven  we  will  be  free  I 
And,  vainly  now  the  Northmen  try 
To  beat  us  down — in  arms  we  stand 
To  strike  for  this  our  native  land  ! 

We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 
Then  let  the  drums  all  roll  !  etc.,  etc. 


36  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Born  free,  we  thus  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven  we  will  be  free  ! 
Our  wives  and  children  look  on  high, 
Pray  God  to  smile  upon  the  right  I 
And  bid  us  in  the  deadly  fight 
As  freemen  live  or  die  1 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll  I  etc.,  etc. 


Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven  we  will  be  free  ! 
And  ere  we  cease  this  battle-cry, 
Be  all  our  blood,  our  kindred's  spilt, 
On  bayonet  or  sabre  hilt  ! 

We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll  !  etc.,  etc. 


Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 

By  Heaven  we  will  be  free  ! 
Defiant  let  the  banners  fly, 
Shake  out  their  glories  to  the  air, 
And,  kneeling,  brothers,  let  us  swear 

We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 

Then  let  the  drums  all  roll  !  etc.,  etc. 


Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live  : 
Bv  Heaven  we  will  be  free  ! 


THE  BATTLE-CRY  OF  THE  SOUTH.  37 

And  to  this  oath  the  dead  reply — 
Our  valiant  fathers'  sacred  ghosts — 
These  with  us,  and  the  God  of  hosts, 
We  will  be  free  or  die  ! 
Then  let  the  drums  all  roll  !  etc.,  etc. 


THE  BATTLE-CRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

BY   JAMES    R.    RANDALL. 

Ann  yourselves  and  be  valiant  men,  and  see  that  ye  be  in  readinesn 
against  the  morning,  that  ye  may  fight  with  these  nations  that  are  assem 
bled  against  us,  to  destroy  us  and  our  sanctuary. 

For  it  is  better  for  ns  to  die  in  battle  than  to  behold  the  calamities  of  our 
people  and  our  sanctuary. — Maccabees  I. 

BROTHERS  !  the  thunder-cloud  is  black, 

And  the  wail  of  the  South  wings  forth  ; 
Will  ye  cringe  to  the  hot  tornado's  rack, 

And  the  vampires  of  the  North  ? 
Strike  !  ye  can  win  a  martyr's  goal, 

Strike  !  with  a  ruthless  hand — 
Strike  !  with  the  vengeance  of  the  soul, 
For  your  bright,  beleaguered  land  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp,* 
Arid  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 


*  .The  surname  of  the  great  Maccabeus. 


38  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Arise  !  though  the  stars  have  a  rugged  glare, 
And  the  moon  has  a  wrath-blurred  crown — 
Brothers  !  a  blessing  is  ambushed  there 

In  the  cliffs  of  the  Father's  frown  : 
Arise  1  ye  are  worthy  the  wondrous  light 

Which  the  Sun  of  Justice  gives — 
In  the  caves  and  sepulchres  of  night 
Jehovah  the  Lord  King  lives  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needy  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 


Think  of  the  dead  by  the  Tennessee, 
In  their  frozen  shrouds  of  gore — 
Think  of  the  mothers  who  shall  see 

Those  darling  eyes  no  more  1 
But  better  are  they  in  a  hero  grave 

Than  the  serfs  of  time  and  breath, 
For  they  are  the  children  of  the  brave, 
And  the  cherubim  of  death  I 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 

Better  the  charnels  of  the  West, 
And  a  hecatomb  of  livos, 


THE  BATTLE- GRY  OF  THE  SOUTH.  39 

Than  the  foul  invader  as  a  guest 

'Mid  your  sisters  and  your  wives — 
But  a  spirit  lurketh  in  every  maid, 

Though,  brothers,  ye  should  quail, 
To  sharpen  a  Judith's  lurid  blade, 
And  the  livid  spike  of  Jael  1 

To  arras  !  to  arms  1  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  1 

Brothers  !  I  see  you  tramping  by, 

With  the  gladiator  gaze, 
And  your  shout  is  the  Macedonian  cry 

Of  the  old,  heroic  days  ! 
March  on  !   with  trumpet  and  with  drum, 

With  rifle,  pike,  and  dart, 
And  die — if  even  death  must  come — 
Upon  your  country's  heart  ! 

To  arms  I  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  I 

Brothers  !  the  thunder-cloud  is  black, 

And  the  wail  of  the  South  wings  forth  ; 
Will  ye  cringe  to  the  hot  tornado's  rack, 

And  the  vampires  of  the  North  ? 


40  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Strike  1  ye  can  win  a  martyr's  goal, 

Strike  !  with  a  ruthless  hand — 
Strike  !  with  the  vengeance  of  the  soul 
For  your  bright,  beleaguered  land  ! 

To  arms  1  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 


SONNET. 

CHARLESTON  MERCURY. 

DEMOCRACY  hath  done  its  work  of  ill, 
And,  seeming  freemen,  never  to  be  free, 
While  the  poor  people  shout  in  vanity, 

The  Demagogue  triumphs  o'er  the  popular  will. 

How  swift  the  abasement  follows  1     But  few  years, 
And  we  stood  eminent.     Great  men  were  ours, 
Of  virtue  stern,  and  armed  with  mightiest  powers 

How  have  we  sunk  below  our  proper  spheres  ! 

No  Heroes,  Virtues,  Men  !     But  in  their  place, 
The  nimble  marmozet  and  magpie  men  ; 
Creatures  that  only  mock  and  mimic,  when 

They  run  astride  the  shoulders  of  the  race  ; 

Democracy,  in  vanity  elate, 

Clothing  but  sycophants  in  robes  of  state. 


SEVENTY-SIX  AND  SIXTY- ONE. 


SEVENTY-SIX  AND  SIXTY-ONE. 

BY  JOHN  W.  OVERALL,  OF  LOUISIANA. 

YE  spirits  of  the  glorious  dead! 

Ye  watchers  in  the  sky! 
Who  sought  the  patriot's  crimson  bed, 

With  holy  trust  and  high — 
Come,  lend  your  inspiration  now, 

Come,  fire  each  Southern  son, 
Who  nobly  fights  for  freemen's  rights, 

And  shouts  for  sixty-one. 


Come,  teach  them  how,  on  hill  on  glade, 
Quick  leaping  from  your  side, 

The  lightning  flash  of  sabres  made 
A  red  and  flowing  tide — 

How  well  ye  fought,  how  bravely  fell, 
Beneath  our  burning  sun  ; 

And  let  the  lyre,  in  strains  of  fire, 

.    So  speak  of  sixty-one. 


There's  many  a  grave  in  all  the  land, 

And  many  a  crucifix, 
Which  tells  how  that  heroic  band 

Stood  firm  in  seventy-six — 


42  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Ye  heroes  of  the  deathless  past, 

Your  glorious  race  is  run, 
But  from  your  dust  springs  freemen's  trust, 

And  blows  for  sixty-one. 


We  build  our  altars  where  you  lie, 

On  many  a  verdant  sod, 
With  sabres  pointing  to  the  sky, 

Arid  sanctified  of  God; 
The  smoke  shall  rise  from  every  pilo, 

Till  freedom's  cause  is  won, 
And  every  mouth  throughout  the  South, 

Shall  shout  for  sixty-one  ! 


"REDDATO    GLADIUM." 

VIRGINIA    TO    WINFIELD    SCOTT. 

A  VOICE  is  heard  in  Ram  ah  ! 

High  sounds  are  on  the  gale  ! 
Notes  to  wake  buried  patriots ! 

Notes  to  strike  traitors  pale  1 
Wild  notes  of  outraged  feeling 

Cry  aloud  and  spare  him  not ! 
'Tis  Virginia's  strong  appealing, 

And  she  calls  to  Winfield  Scott  ! 


"REDDATO  GLADIUM."  43 

Oh  !  chief  among  ten  thousand  I 

Thou  whom  I  loved  so  well, 
Star  that  has  set,  as  never  yet 

Since  son  of  morning  fell ! 
I  call  not  in  reviling, 

Nor  to  speak  thee  what  thou  art; 
I  leave  thee  to  thy  death-bed, 

And  I  leave  thee  to  thy  heart  ! 


But  by  every  mortal  hope, 

And  by  every  mortal  fear; 
By  all  that  man  deems  sacred, 

And  that  woman  holds  most  dear; 
Yea  !  by  thy  mother's  honor, 

And  by  thy  father's  grave, 
By  hell  beneath,  and  heaven  above, 

Give  back  the  sword  I  gave  ! 


Not  since  God's  sword  was  planted 

To  guard  life's  heavenly  tree, 
Has  ever  blade  been  granted, 

Like  that  bestowed  on  thee  ! 
To  pierce  me  with  the  steel  I  gave 

To  guard  mine  honor's  shrine, 
Not  since  Iscariot  lived  and  died, 

Was  treason  like  to  thine  ! 


44  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Give  back  the  sword  I  and  sever 

Our  strong  and  mighty  tie  ! 
We  part,  and  part  forever, 

To  conquer  or  to  die  ! 
In  sorrow,  not  in  anger, 

I  speak  the  word,  "  We  part  !w 
For  I  leave  thee  to  thy  death-bed, 

And  I  leave  thee  to  thy  heart  ! 

RICHMOND   WHIO. 


NAY,  KEEP  THE  SWORD. 

BY    CARRIE    CLIFFORD. 

NAY,  keep  the  sword  which  once  we  gave, 

A  token  of  our  trust  in  thee; 
The  steel  is  true,  the  blade  is  keen — 

False  as  thou  art  it  cannot  be. 

We  hailed  thee  as  our  glorious  chief, 

With  laurel-wreaths  we  bound  thy  brow; 

Thy  name  then  thrilled  from  tongue  to  tongue; 
In  whispers  hushed  we  breathe  it  now. 

Yes,  keep  it  till  thy  dying  day; 

Momentous  ever  let  it  be, 
Of  a  great  treasure  once  possessed — 

A  people's  love  now  lost  to  thee. 


NAY,  KEKP  THE  SWOKD.  45 

Thy  mother  will  not  bow  her  head; 

She  bares  her  bosom  to  thce  now; 
But  may  the  bright  steel  fail  to  wound — 

It  is  more  merciful  than  thou. 


And  ere  thou  strik'st  the  fatal  blow, 
Thousands  of  sons  of  this  fair  land 

Will  rise,  and,  in  their  anger  just, 
Will  stay  the  rash  act  of  thy  hand. 


And  when  in  terror  thou  shalt  hear 

Thy  murderous  deeds  of  vengeance  cry 

And  feel  the  weight  of  thy  great  crime, 
Then  fall  upon  thy  sword  and  die. 


Those  aged  locks  Pll  not  reproach, 
Although  upon  a  traitor's  brow; 

We've  looked  with  reverence  on  them  once, 
We'll  try  and  not  revile  them  now. 


But  her  true  sons  and  daughters  pray, 
That  ere  thy  day  of  reckoning  be, 

Thy  ingrate  heart  may  feel  the  pain 
To  know  thy  mother  once  more  free. 


46  WAS  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


COERCION:  A  POEM  FOR  THEN  AND  NOW. 

BY  JOHN  B.  THOMPSON,  OF  VIRGINIA. 

WHO  talks  of  coercion  ?  who  dares  to  deny 

A  resolute  people  the  right  to  be  free  ? 
Let  him  blot  out  forever  one  star  from  the  sky, 

Or  curb  with  his  fetter  the  wave  of  the  sea  ! 


Who  prates  of  coercion  ?    Can  love  be  restored 
To  bosoms  where  only  resentment  may  dwell  ? 

Can  peace  upon  earth  be  proclaimed  by  the  sword, 
Or  good-will  among  men  be  established  by  shell  ? 


Shame  !  shame  ! — that  the  statesman  and  trickster,  forsooth, 

Should  have  for  a  crisis  no  other  recourse, 
Beneath  the  fair  day-spring  of  light  and  of  truth, 

Than  the  old  brutumfulmen  of  tyranny — force  ! 


From   the   holes  where   fraud,  falsehood,   and   hate   slink 

away — 

'   From  the  crypt  in  which  error  lies  buried  in  chains — 
This  foul  apparition  stalks  forth  to  the  day, 

And  would  ravage  the  land  which  his  presence  profanes. 


COERCION:   A  POEM.  FOB  THEN  AND  NOW.  47 

Could  you  conquer  us,  men  of  the  North — could  you  bring 
Desolation  and  death  on  our  homes  as  a  flood — 

Can  you  hope  the  pure  lily,  affection,  will  spring 
From  ashes  all  reeking  and  sodden  with  blood  ? 

Could  you  brand  us  as  villains  and  serfs,  know  ye  not 
What  fierce,  sullen  hatred  lurks  under  the  scar  "{ 

How  loyal  to  Hapsburg  is  Venice,  I  wot  ! 

How  dearly  the  Pole  loves  his  father,  the  Czar  ! 

But  'twere  well  to  remember  this  land  of  the  sun 

Is  a  nutrix  leonum,  and  suckles  a  race 
Strong-armed,  lion-hearted,  and  banded  as  one, 

Who  brook  not  oppression  and  know  not  disgrace. 

And  well  may  the  schemers  in  office  beware 
The  swift  retribution  that  waits  upon  crime, 

When  the  lion,  RESISTANCE,  shall  leap  from  his  lair, 
With  a  fury  that  renders  his  vengeance  sublime. 

Once,  men  of  the  North,  we  were  brothers,  and  still, 
Though  brothers  no  more,  we  would  gladly  be  friends; 

Nor  join  in  a  conflict  accursed,  that  must  fill 
With  ruin  the  country  on  which  it  descends. 

But,  if  smitten  with  blindness,  and  mad  with  the  rage 
The  gods  gave  to  all  whom  they  wished  to  destroy, 


48  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

You  would  act  a  new  Iliad,  to  darken  the  age 
With  horrors  beyond  what  is  told  us  of  Troy — 

If,  deaf  as  the  adder  itself  to  the  cries, 

When  wisdom,  humanity,  justice  implore, 
You  would  have  our  proud  eagle  to  feed  on  the  eyes 

Of  those  who  have  taught  him  so  grandly  to  soar — 

If  there  be  to  your  malice  no  limit  imposed, 
And  you  purpose  hereafter  to  rule  with  the  rod 

The  men  upon  whom  you  already  have  closed 
Our  goodly  domain  and  the  temples  of  God  : 

To  the  breeze  then  your  banner  dishonored  unfold, 
And,  at  once,  let  the  tocsin  be  sounded  afar; 

We  greet  you,  as  greeted  the  Swiss,  Charles  the  Bold — 
With  a  farewell  to  peace  and  a  welcome  to  war  ! 

For  the  courage  that  clings  to  our  soil,  ever  bright, 
Shall  catch  inspiration  from  turf  and  from  tide; 

Our  sons  unappalled  shall  go  forth  to  the  fight, 

With  the  smile  of  the  fair,  the  pure  kiss  of  the  bride; 

And  the  bugle  its  echoes  shall  send  through  the  past, 
In  the  trenches  of  Yorktown  to  waken  the  slain; 

While  the  sod  of  King's  Mountain  shall  heave  at  the  blast, 
And  give  up  its  heroes  to  glory  again. 


A    CRY  TO  AJRAf.5.  49 


A    CRY    TO    ARMS. 

BY  HENRY  TIMROD. 

Ho!  woodsmen  of  the  mountain-side! 

Ho!  dwellers  in  the  vales! 
Ho!  ye  who  by  the  chafing-  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade; 
Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade. 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands; 

And  till  he  flies  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands, 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain; 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain! 


Come,  with  the  weapons  at  your  call — 
With  musket,  pike,  or  knife; 

He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 
Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
3* 


5Q  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought 
With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 

Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 
Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn. 


Does  any  falter?  let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh!  could  you  like  your  women  feel, 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch. 


What  hope,  0  God!  would  not  grow  warm 

When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 
The  lily  calmly  braves  the  storm, 

And  shall  the  palm-tree  fear  ? 
No!  rather  let  its  branches  court 

The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain; 
And  from  the  lily's  regal  port 

Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain  ! 


Ho!  woodsmen  of  the  mountain-side  ! 

Ho!  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho!  ye  who  by  the  roaring  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales  ! 


JACKSON,  THE  ALEXANDRIA  MARTYR.  5J 

Come!  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake  ; 
We  battle  for  our  country's  right, 

And  for  the  lily's  sake  1 


JACKSON,  THE  ALEXANDRIA  MARTYR. 

BY  WM.  H.  HOLCOMBE,  M.  D.,  OF  VIRGINIA. 

'TWAS  not  the  private  insult  galled  him  most, 

But  public  outrage  of  his  country's  flag, 

To  which  his  patriotic  heart  had  pledged 

Its  faith  as  to  a  bride.     The  bold,  proud  chief, 

Th'  avenging  host,  and  the  swift-coming  death 

Appalled  him  not.     Nor  life  with  all  its  charms, 

Nor  home,  nor  wife,  nor  children  could  weigh  down 

The  fierce,  heroic  instincts  to  destroy 

The  insolent  invader.     Ellsworth  fell, 

And  Jackson  perished  'mid  the  pack  of  wolves, 

Befriended  only  by  his  own  great  heart 

And  God  approving.     More  than  Roman  soul ! 

0  type  of  our  impetuous  chivalry ! 

May  this  young  nation  ever  boast  her  sons 

A  vast,  and  inconceivable  multitude, 

Standing  like  thee  in  her  extremest  van, 

Self-poised  and  ready,  in  defence  of  rights 

Or  in  revenge  of  wrongs,  to  dare  and  die  ! 


52  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

THE  MARTYR  OF  ALEXANDRIA. 

BY  JAMES  W.  SIMMONS,  OF  TEXAS. 

REVEALED,  as  in  a  lightning  flash, 

A  hero  stood  ! 
The  invading  foe,  the  trumpet's  crash, 

Set  up  his  blood. 

High  o'er  the  sacred  pile  that  bends 
Those  forms  above, 

Thy  star,  0  Freedom  !  brightly  blends 
Its  rays  with  love. 

The  banner  of  a  mighty  race, 

Serenely  there, 
Unfurls  the  genius  of  the  place, 

In  haunted  air. 

A  vow  is  registered  in  Heaven  ! 

Patriot  !  'tis  thine  ! 
To  guard  those  matchless  colors,  given 

By  hands  divine. 

Jackson  !  thy  spirit  may  not  hear 
Our  wail  ascend  : 

A  nation  gathers  round  thy  bier, 
And  mourns  its  friend. 


THE  FIRE  OF  FREEDOM. 

The  example  is  thy  monument, 
And  organ  tones 

Thy  name  resound,  with  glory  blent, 
Prouder  than  thrones  ! 


And  they  whose  loss  hath  been  our  gain, 

A  people's  cares 
Shall  win  their  wounded  hearts  from  pain, 

And  wipe  their  tears. 


When  time  shall  set  the  captives  free, 
Now  scathed  by  wrath, 

Heirs  of  his  immortality, 

Bright  be  their  path. 


THE  BLESSED  UNION— EPIGRAM f. 

DOUBTLESS  to  some,  with  length  of  ears, 

To  gratify  an  ape's  desire, 
The  blessed  Union  still  endears  ; — 
The  stripes,  if  not  the  stars,  be  theirs  ! 
"  Greek  faith"  they  gave  us  eighty  years, 

And  then—"  Greek  fire  !" 
But,  better  all  their  fires  of  scath 
Than  one  hour's  trust  in  Yankee  faith  ! 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


THE  FIRE  OF  FREEDOM. 

THE  holy  fire  that  nerved  the  Greek 

To  make  his  stand  at  Marathon, 
Until  the  last  red  foeman's  shriek 

Proclaimed  that  freedom's  fight  was  won, 
Still  lives  unquenched — unquenchable  : 

Through  every  age  its  fires  will  burn — 
Lives  in  the  hermit's  lonely  cell, 

And  springs  from  every  storied  urn. 


The  hearthstone  embers  hold  the  spark 

Where  fell  oppression's  foot  hath  trod  ; 
Through  superstition's  shadow  dark 

It  flashes  to  the  living  God  ! 
From  Moscow's  ashes  springs  the  Russ  ; 

In  Warsaw,  Poland  lives  again  : 
Schamyl,  on  frosty  Caucasus, 

Strikes  liberty's  electric  chain  ! 


Tell's  freedom-beacon  lights  the  Swiss  ; 

Vainly  the  invader  ever  strives  ; 
He  finds  Sic  Semper  Tyrannis 

In  San  Jacinto's  bowie-knives  1 


HYMN  TG   THE  NATIONAL  FLAG.  55 

Than  these — than  all — a  holier  fire 

Now  burns  thy  soul,  Virginia's  son  ! 
Strike  then  for  wife,  babe,  gray-haired  sire, 

Strike  for  the  grave  of  Washington  ! 

The  Northern  rabble  arms  for  greed  ; 

The  hireling  parson  goads  the  train — 
In  that  foul  crop  from  bigot  seed, 

Old  "  Praise  God  Barebones"  howls  again  ! 
We  welcome  them  to  "  Southern  lands," 

We  welcome  them  to  "Southern  slaves," 
We  welcome  them  "  with  bloody  hands 

To  hospitable  Southern  graves  I" 


HYMN  TO  THE  NATIONAL  FLAG. 

BY  MRS.  M.  J.  PRESTON. 

FLOAT  aloft,  thou  stainless  banner  ! 

Azure  cross  arid  field  of  light ; 
Be  thy  brilliant  stars  the  symbol 

Of  the  pure  and  true  and  right. 

Shelter  freedom's  holy  cause 

Liberty  and  sacred  laws  ; 

Guard  the  youngest  of  the  nations 

Keep  her  virgin  honor  bright. 


56  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

From  Virginia's  storied  border, 

Down  to  Tampa's  furthest  shore — 
From  the  blue  Atlantic's  clashings 

To  the  Rio  Grande's  roar — 
Over  many  a  crimson  plain, 
Where  our  martyred  ones  lie  slain — 
Fling  abroad  thy  blessed  shelter, 
Stream  and  mount  and  valley  o'er. 


In  thy  cross  of  heavenly  azure 
Has  our  faith  its  emblem  high  ; 

In  thy  field  of  white,  the  hallow'd 
Truth  for  which  we'll  dare  and  die  ; 

In  thy  red,  the  patriot  blood — 

Ah  1  the  consecrated  flood. 

Lift  thyself,  resistless  banner  ! 
Ever  fill  our  Southern  sky  I 


Flash  with  living,  lightning  motion 

In  the  sight  of  all  the  brave ! 
Tell  the  price  at  which  we  purchased 

Room  and  right  for  thee  to  wave 
Freely  in  our  God's  free  air, 
Pure  and  proud  and  stainless  fair, 
Banner  of  the  youngest  nation — 
Banner  we  would  die  to  save  ! 


SONNET— MORAL   OF  PARTY.  57 

Strike  Thou  for  us  !  King  of  armies  ! 

Grant  us  room  in  Thy  broad  world  ! 
Loosen  all  the  despot's  fetters, 

Back  be  all  his  legions  hurled  ! 
Give  us  peace  and  liberty, 
Let  the  land  we  love  be  free — 
Then,  oh  !   bright  and  stainless  banner  ! 

Never  shall  thy  folds  be  furled  ! 


SONNET—MORAL  OF  PARTY 

CHARLESTON  MERCURY. 

THE  moral  of  a  party — if  it  be 

That  healthy  States  need  parties,  lies  in  this, 
That  we  consider  well  what  race  it  is, 

And  what  the  germ  that  first  has  made  it  free. 

That  germ  must  constitute  the  living  tie 
That  binds  its  generations  to  the  end, 

Change  measures  if  it  need,  or  policy, 
But  neither  break  the  principle,  nor  bend. 

Each  race  hath  its  own  nature — fixed,  defined, 
By  Heaven,  and  if  its  principle  be  won, 
Kept  changeless  as  the  progress  of  the  sun, 

It  mocks  at  storm  and  rage,  at  sea  and  wind, 

And  grows  to  consummation,  as  the  tree, 

Matured,  that  ever  grew  in  culture  free. 


5$  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


OUR   FAITH    IN    '61. 

BY  A.  J.  REQUIER. 

"That  governments  are  instituted  among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers 
from  the  consent  of  the  governed :  that  whenever  any  form  of  govern 
ment  becomes  destructive  of  these  ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to 
alter  or  abolish  it,  and  to  institute  a  new  government,  laying  its  foundation 
on  such  principles,  and  organizing  its  powers  in  such  form,  as  TO  THEM  SHALL 
SEEM  most  likely  to  effect  their  safety  and  happiness." — [Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence,  July  4,  '76.] 

NOT  yet  one  hundred  years  have  flown 

Since  on  this  very  spot, 
The  subjects  of  a  sovereign  throne — 

Liege-master  of  their  lot — 
This  high  degree  sped  o'er  the  sea, 

From  council-board  and  tent, 
"  No  earthly  power  can  rule  the  free 

But  by  their  own  consent  1" 


For  this,  they  fought  as  Saxons  fight, 

On  bloody  fields  and  long — 
Themselves  the  champions  of  the  right, 

And  judges  of  the  wrong  ; 
For  this  their  stainless  knighthood  wore 

The  branded  rebel's  name, 
Until  the  starry  cross  they  bore 

Set  all  the  skies  aflame  I 


OUR  FAITH  IN  '61.  59 


And  States  co-equal  and  distinct 

Outshone  the  western  sun, 
By  one  great  charter  interlinked — 

Not  blended  into  one  ; 
Whose  graven  key  that  high  decree 

The  grand  inscription  lent, 
"  No  earthly  power  can  rule  the  free 

But  by  their  own  consent  1" 


Oh  !  sordid  age  !  Oh  !  ruthless  rage 

Oh  !  sacrilegious  wrong  ! 
A  deed  to  blast  the  record  page, 

And  snap  the  strings  of  song  ; 
In  that  great  charter's  name,  a  band 

By  grovelling  greed  enticed, 
Whose  warrant  is  the  grasping  hand 

Of  creeds  without  a  Christ — 


States  that  have  trampled  every  pledge 

Its  crystal  code  contains, 
Now  give  their  swords  a  keener  edge 

To  harness  it  with  chains — 
To  make  a  bond  of  brotherhood 

The  sanction  and  the  seal, 
By  which  to  arm  a  rabble  brood 

With  fratricidal  steel. 


60  -WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Who,  conscious  that  their  cause  is  black, 

*  In  puling  prose  and  rhyme, 
Talk  hatefully  of  love,  and  tack 

Hypocrisy  to  crime  ; 
Who  smile  and  smite,  engross  the  gorge 

Or  impotently  frown  ; 
And  call  us  "  rebels"  with  King  George, 

As  if  they  wore  his  crown  ! 


Most  venal  of  a  venal  race, 

Who  think  you  cheat  the  sky 
With  every  pharisaic  face 

And  simulated  lie  ; 
Round  Freedom's  lair,  with  weapons  bare, 

We  greet  the  light  divine 
Of  those  who  throned  the  goddess  there, 

And  yet  inspire  the  shrine  I 


Our  loved  ones'  graves  are  at  our  feet, 

Their  homesteads  at  our  back — 
No  belted  Southron  can  retreat 

With  women  on  his  track  ; 
Peal,  bannered  host,  the  proud  decree 

Which  from  your  fathers  went, 
"  No  earthly  power  can  rule  the  free 

But  by  their  own  consent  !" 


WOULD ST  THOU  HAVE  ME  LOVE  TREE. 


61 


WOTJLDST  THOU  HAVE  ME  LOYE  THEE. 

BY  ALEX.   B.  MEEK. 

WOULDST  thou  have  me  love  thee,  dearest, 

With  a  woman's  proudest  heart, 
Which  shall  ever  hold  thee  nearest, 

Shrined  in  its  inmost  heart  ? 
Listen,  then  !    My  country's  calling 

On  her  sons  to  meet  the  foe  ! 
Leave  these  groves  of  rose  and  myrtle  ; 

Drop  thy  dreamy  harp  of  love  ! 
Like  young  Korner — scorn  the  turtle, 

When  the  eagle  screams  above  ! 


Dost  thou  pause  ? — Let  dastards  dally — 

Do  thou  for  thy  country  fight  I 
'Neath  her  noble  emblem  rally — 

"  God,  our  country,  and  our  rigl*  !" 
Listen!   now  her  trumpet's  calling 

On  her  sons  to  meet  the  foe  ! 
Woman's  heart  is  soft  and  tender, 

But  'tis  proud  and  faithful  too : 
Shall  she  be  her  land's  defender  ? 

Lover  !  Soldier  !  up  and  do  ! 


02  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Seize  thy  father's  ancient  falchion, 

Which  once  flashed  as  freedom's  star  ! 
Till  sweet  peace — the  bow  and  halcyon, 

Stilled  the  stormy  strife  of  war. 
Listen  !  now  thy  country's  calling 

On  her  sons  to  meet  her  foe  ! 
Sweet  is  love  in  moonlight  bowers  ! 

Sweet  the  altar  and  the  flame  I 
Sweet  the  spring-time  with  her  flowers  ! 

Sweeter  far  the  patriot's  name  ! 


Should  the  God  who  smiles  above  thee, 

Doom  thee  to  a  soldier's  grave, 
Hearts  will  break,  but  fame  will  love  thee, 

Canonized  among  the  brave  ! 
Listen,  then  !  thy  country's  calling 

On  her  sons  to  meet  the  foe  I 
Rather  would  I  view  thee  lying 

On  the  last  red  field  of  strife, 
'Mid  thy  country's  heroes  dying, 

Than  become  a  dastard's  wife  I 


ENLISTED   TO-DAY. 


ENLISTED  TO-DAY. 

I  KNOW  the  sun  shines,  and  the  lilacs  are  blowing, 
And  summer  sends  kisses  by  beautiful  May — 

Oh  !  to  see  all  the  treasures  the  spring  is  bestowing, 
And  think — my  boy  Willie  enlisted  to-day. 

It  seems  but  a  day  since  at  twilight,  low  humming, 
I  rocked  him  to  sleep  with  his  cheek  upon  mine, 

While  Hobby,  the  four-year  old,  watched  for  the  coming 
Of  father,  adown  the  street's  indistinct  line. 

It  is  many  a  year  since  my  Harry  departed, 

To  come  back  no  more  in  the  twilight  or  dawn  ; 

And  Robby  grew  weary  of  watching,  and  started 
Alone  on  the  journey  his  father  had  gone. 

It  is  many  a  year — and  this  afternoon  sitting 
At  Hobby's  old  window,  I  heard  the  band  play, 

And  suddenly  ceased  dreaming  over  my  knitting, 
To  recollect  Willie  is  twenty  to-day. 

And  that,  standing  beside  him  this  soft  May-day  morning, 
The  sun  making  gold  of  his  wreathed  cigar  smoke, 

I  saw  in  his  sweet  eyes  and  lips  a  faint  warning, 
And  choked  down  the  tears  when  he  eagerly  spoke  : 


64  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

11  Dear  mother,  you  know  how  these  Northmen  are  crowing, 
They  would  trample  the  rights  of  the  South  in  the  dust; 
The  boys  are  all  fire  ;  and  they  wish  I  were  going- — " 
He  stopped,  but  his  eyes  said,  "  Oh,  say  if  I  must  1" 

I  smiled  on  the  boy,  though  my  heart  it  seemed  breaking, 
My  eyes  filled  with  tears,  so  I  turned  them  away, 

And  answered  him,  "  Willie,  'tis  well  you  are  waking — 
Go,  act  as  your  father  would  bid  you,  to-day  I" 


I  sit  in  the  window,  and  see  the  flags  flying, 
And  drearily  list  to  the  roll  of  the  drum, 

And  smother  the  pain  in  my  heart  that  is  lying, 
And  bid  all  the  fears  in  my  bosom  be  dumb. 


I  shall  sit  in  the  window  when  summer  is  lying 
Out  over  the  fields,  and  the  honey-bee's  hum 

Lulls  the  rose  at  the  porch  from  her  tremulous  sighing, 
And  watch  for  the  face  of  my  darling  to  come. 

And  if  he  should  fall — his  young  life  he  has  given 
For  freedom's  sweet  sake  ;  and  for  me,  I  will  pray 

Once  more  with  rny  Harry  and  Hobby  in  Heaven 
To  meet  the  dear  boy  that  enlisted  to-day. 


MY  MARYLAND. 


MY  MARYLAND. 

WRITTEN   AT   POINTK   COUPEE,    LA.,    APRIL    26,    1861.      FIRST   PUBLISHED 
IN  THE   NEW   ORLEANS   DELTA. 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  I 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland  1 

My  Mother-State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland  ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 

Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 

And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 
Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland  ! 

Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland  I 


66  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  1 


Come  !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland  ! 
Come  !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland  ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing-  May, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  I 


Come  !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland  ! 

Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland  ! 

Come  !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 

That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 

And  ring  thy  dauntless  Slogan-song, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Dear  Mother  !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  1 

Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland  ! 


MY  MARYLAND. 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain — 
"  Sic  semper,"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  millions  back  amain, 

Maryland  ! 
Arise,  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland  ! 

For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland  ! 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 

From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek — 

Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland  i 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland  I 
Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 

Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland  ! 


68  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb — 
Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes — she  burns  !  she'll  come  !  she'll  come! 
Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 


THE   BOY-SOLDIER. 

BY  A  LADY  OF  SAVANNAH. 

HE  is  acting  o'er  the  battle, 

With  his  cap  and  feather  gay, 
Singing  out  his  soldier-prattle, 

In  a  mockish  manly  way — 
With  the  boldest,  bravest  footstep, 

Treading  firmly  up  and  down, 
And  his  banner  waving  softly, 

O'er  his  boyish  locks  of  brown. 


And  I  sit  beside  him  sewing, 

With  a  busy  heart  and  hand, 
For  the  gallant  soldiers  going 

To  the  far-off  battle  land— 
And  I  gaze  upon  my  jewel, 

In  his  baby  spirit  bold, 
My  little  blue-eyed  soldier, 

Just  a  second  summer  old. 


THE  BOY-SOLDIER.  QC) 

Still  a  deep,  deep  well  of  feeling, 

In  my  mother's  heart  is  stirred, 
And  the  tears  come  softly  stealing 

At  each  imitative  word  ! 
There's  a  struggle  in  my  bosom, 

For  I  love  my  darling  boy — 
He's  the  gladness  of  my  spirit, 

He's  the  sunlight  of  my  joy  ! 
Yet  I  think  upon  my  country, 

And  my  spirit  groweth  bold — 
Oh  !  I  wish  my  blue-eyed  soldier 

Were  but  twenty  summers  old  ! 


I  would  speed  him  to  the  battle — 
I  would  arm  him  for  the  fisrht ; 

O  / 

I  would  give  him  to  his  country, 
For  his  country's  wrong  and  right ! 

I  would  nerve  his  hand  with  blessing 
From  the  "  God  of  battles"  won — 

With  His  helmet  and  His  armor, 
I  would  cover  o'er  my  son. 


Oh  !  I  know  there'd  be  a  struggle, 
For  I  love  my  darling  boy ; 

He's  the  gladness  of  my  spirit, 
He's  the  sunlight  of  my  joy  ! 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Yet  in  thinking-  of  my  country, 
Oh  !  my  spirit  groweth  bold, 

And  I  with  my  blue-eyed  soldier 
Were  but  twenty  summers  old  ' 


THE  GOOD  OLD  CAUSE. 

BY  JOHN  D.  PHELAN,  OF  MONTGOMERY,  ALA. 


HUZZA  !  huzza  !  for  the  Good  Old  Cause, 

'Tis  a  stirring-  sound  to  hear, 
For  it  tells  of  rights  and  liberties, 

Our  fathers  bought  so  dear  ; 
It  brings  up  the  Jersey  prison-ship, 

The  spot  where  Warren  fell, 
And  the  scaffold  which  echoes  the  dying  words 

Of  murdered  Haynds  farewell. 

ii. 

The  Good  Old  Cause  !  it  is  still  the  same 

Though  age  upon  age  may  roll ; 
'Tis  the  cause  of  the  right  against  the  wrong, 

Burning  bright  in  each  generous  soul ; 
>Tis  the  cause  of  all  who  claim  to  live 

As  freemen  on  Freedom's  sod  ; 
Of  the  widow,  who  wails  her  husband  and  sons, 

By  Tyranny's  heel  down-trod. 


THE  GOOD  OLD   CAUSE. 

III. 

And  whoever  burns  with  a  holy  zeal, 

To  behold  his  country  free, 
And  would  sooner  see  her  baptized  in  blood, 

Than  to  bend  the  suppliant  knee  ; 
Must  agree  to  follow  her  White-Gross  flag, 

Where  the  storms  of  battle  roll, 
A  soldier — A  SOLDIER  ! — with  arms  in  his  hands, 

And  the  love  of  the  South  in  his  soul ! 

IV. 

Come  one,  come  all,  at  your  country's  call, 

Let  none  remain  behind, 
But  those  too  young,  and  those  too  old, 

The  feeble,  the  halt,  the  blind  ; 
Let  every  man,  whether  rich  or  poor, 

Who  can  carry  a  knapsack  and  gun, 
Repair  to  the  ranks  of  our  Southern  host, 

'Till  the  cause  of  the  South  is  won. 

v. 

But  the  son  of  the  South,  if  such  there  be, 
Who  will  shrink  from  the  contest  now, 

From  a  love  of  ease,  or  the  lust  of  gain, 
Or  through  fear  of  the  Yankee  foe  ; 

May  his  neighbors  shrink  from  his  proffered  hand, 
As  though  it  was  soiled  for  aye, 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  may  every  woman  turn  her  cheek 

From  his  craven  lips  away  ; 
May  his  country's  curse  be  on  his  head, 

And  may  no  man  ever  see, 
A  gentle  bride  by  the  traitor's  side, 

Or  children  about  his  knee. 

VI. 

Huzza  !  huzza  !  for  the  Good  Old  Cause, 

'Tis  a  stirring  sound  to  hear  ; 
For  it  tells  of  rights  and  liberties, 

Our  fathers  bought  so  dear  ; 
It  summons  our  braves  from  their  bloody  graves. 

To  receive  our  fond  applause, 
And  bids  us  tread  in  the  steps  of  those 

Who  died  for  the  Good  Old  Cause. 


MANASSAS. 

BY  CATHERINE  M.  WARFIELD. 

THEY  have  met  at  last — as  storm-clouds 
meet  in  heaven  ; 
And  the  Northmen,  back  and  bleeding, 

have  been  driven 

And  their  thunders  have  been  stilled, 
And  their  leaders  crushed  or  killed, 
And  their  ranks,  with  terror  thrilled, 
rent  and  riven ! 


MANASSAS.  73 

Like  the  leaves  of  Vallambrosa 

they  are  lying  ; 

In  the  moonlight,  in  the  midnight, 

dead  and  dying  : 

Like  those  leaves  before  the  gale, 

Swept  their  legions,  wild  and  pale  ; 

While  the  host  that  made  them  quail 
stood,  defying. 


When  aloft  in  morning  sunlight 

flags  were  flaunted, 

And  "  swift  vengeance  on  the  rebel" 

proudly  vaunted  : 

Little  did  they  think  that  night 

Should  close  upon  their  shameful  flight, 

And  rebels,  victors  in  the  fight, 

stand  undaunted. 


But  peace  to  those  who  perished 

in  our  passes  ! 
Light  be  the  earth  above  them  ! 

green  the  grasses  ! 
Long  shall  Northmen  rue  the  day, 
When  they  met  our  stern  array, 
And  shrunk  from  battle's  wild  affray 
at  Manassas  I 


74  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

VIRGINIA. 

BY    CATHERINE    M.  WARFIELD. 

GLORIOUS  VIRGINIA  !  Freedom  sprang 

Light  to  her  feet  at  thy  trumpet's  clang  : 

At  the  first  sound  of  that  clarion  blast, 

Foes  like  the  chaff  from  the  whirlwind  passed — 

Passed  to  their  doom  :  from  that  hour  no  more 

Triumphs  their  cause  by  sea  or  shore. 

Glorious  Virginia  !  noble  the  blood 
That  hath  bathed  thy  fields  in  a  crimson  flood  ; 
On  many  a  wide-spread  and  sunny  plain, 
Like  leaves  of  autumn  thy  dead  have  lain  : 
The  Southron  heart  is  their  funeral  urn  ! 
The  Southern  slogan  their  requiem  stern  ! 

Glorious  Virginia  !  to  thee,  to  thee 

We  lean,  as  the  shoots  to  the  parent  tree  ; 

Bending  in  awe  at  thy  glance  of  might ; — 

First  in  the  council,  first  in  the  fight ! 

While  our  flag  is  fanned  by  the  breath  of  fame, 

Glorious  Virginia  I  we'll  bless  thy  name. 


THE  WAR-GHRISTIAN'S  THANKSGIVING.  75 

THE  WARrCHRISTIAN'S  THANKSGIVING. 

RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED   TO   THE   WAR-CLERGY   OF   THE   UNITED    STATES. 
BY  S.  TEACKLE  WALLIS. 

OH,  God  of  battles  !   once  again, 

With  banner,  trump,  and  drum, 
And  garments  in  thy  wine-press  dyed, 

To  give  Thee  thanks  we  come. 

No  goats  or  bullocks  garlanded, 

Unto  thine  altars  go  ; 
With  brothers'  blood,  by  brothers  shed, 

Our  glad  libations  flow, 

From  pest-house  and  from  dungeon  foul, 
Where,  maimed  and  torn,  they  die, 

From  gory  trench  and  charnel-house, 
Where,  heap  on  heap,  they  lie. 

In  every  groan  that  yields  a  soul, 

Each  shriek  a  heart  that  rends, 
With  every  breath  of  tainted  air, 

Our  homage,  Lord,  ascends. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  sabre's  gash, 

The  cannon's  havoc  wild  ; 
We  bless  Thee  for  the  widow's  tears, 

The  want  that  starves  her  child  I 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

We  give  Thee  praise  that  Thou  hast  lit 
The  torch,  and  fanned  the  flame  ; 

That  lust  and  rapine  hunt  their  prey, 
Kind  Father,  in  Thy  name  ! 

That,  for  the  songs  of  idle  joy 

False  angels  sang  of  yore, 
Thou  sendest  War  on  earth — ill-will 

To  men  for  evermore  ! 

We  know  that  wisdom,  truth,  and  right 

To  us  and  ours  are  given  ; 
That  Thou  hast  clothed  us  with  the  wrath, 

To  do  the  work  of  heaven. 

We  know  that  plains  and  cities  waste 

Are  pleasant  in  Thine  eyes — 
Thou  lov'st  a  hearthstone  desolate, 

Thou  lov'st  a  mourner's  cries. 

Let  not  our  weakness  fall  below 

The  measure  of  Thy  will, 
And  while  the  press  hath  wine  to  bleed, 

Oh,  tread  it  with  us  still  I 

Teach  us  to  hate — as  Jesus  taught 
Fond  fools,  of  yore,  to  love ; 


&ONN3T.  77 

Give  us  Thy  vengeance  as  our  own — 
Thy  pity,  hide  above  ! 

Teach  us  to  turn,  with  reeking  hands, 

The  pages  of  Thy  word, 
And  learn  the  blessed  curses  there, 

On  them  that  sheathe  the  sword. 

Where'er  we  tread  may  deserts  spring, 

'Till  none  are  left  to  slay  ; 
And  when  the  last  red  drop  is  shed, 

We'll  kneel  again — and  pray  ! 


SONNET. 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 

MAN  makes  his  own  dread  fates,  and  these  in  turn 

Create  his  tyrants.     In  our  lust  and  passion, 

Our  appetite  and  ignorance,  he  springs. 

The  creature  of  our  need  as  our  desert, 

The  scourge  that  whips  us  for  decaying  virtue, 

He  chastens  to  reform  us  !     Never  yet, 

In  mortal  life,  did  tyrant  rise  to  power, 

But  in  the  people's  worst  infirmities 

Of  crime  and  greed.     The  creature  of  our  vices, 

The  loathsome  ulcer  of  our  vicious  moods, 

Ho  is  decreed  their  proper  punishment. 


78  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

MARCHING  TO  DEATH. 

BY  J.  HERBERT  SASS,  OF  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 
1862. 

"The  National  Quarterly  depicts  a  remarkable  scene,  which  occurred 
Borne  years  since  on  one  of  the  British  transport  ships.  The  commander 
of  the  troops  on  board,  seeing  that  the  vessel  must  soon  sink,  and  that 
there  was  no  hope  of  saving  his  men,  drew  them  up  in  order  of  battle,  and, 
as  in  the  presence  of  a  human  enemy,  bravely  faced  the  doom  that  was 
before  them.  We  know  of  no  more  impressive  illustration  of  the  power  of 
military  discipline  in  the  presence  of  death." 

I. 

THE  last  farewells  are  breathed  by  loving  lips, 
The  last  fond  prayer  for  darling  ones  is  said, 
And  o'er  each  heart  stern  sorrow's  dark  eclipse 
Her  sable  pall  hath  spread. 

n. 

Far,  far  beyond  each  anxious  watcher's  sight, 
Baring  her  bosom  to  the  wanton  sea, 
The  lordly  ship  sweeps  onward  in  her  might, 
Her  tameless  majesty. 

in. 

Forth  from  his  fortress  in  the  western  sky, 
Flashing  defiance  on  each  crested  wave, 
Out  glares  the  sun,  with  red  and  lowering  eyo, 
Grand,  even  in  his  grave. 


MARGRING   TO  DEATH.  79 


IV. 


Till,  waxing  bolder  as  his  rays  decline, 
The  clustering  billows  o'er  his  ramparts  sweep, 
Slow  droops  his  banner — fades  his  light  divine, 
And  darkness  rules  the  deep. 


v. 


Look  once  again! — Night's  sombre  shades  have  fled; 
But  the  pale  rays  that  glimmer  from  their  sheath, 
Serve  but  to  show  the  blackness  overhead, 
And  the  wild  void  beneath. 


VI. 


Mastless  and  helmless  drifts  the  helpless  bark  ; 
Her  pride,  her  majesty,  her  glory  gone  ; 
While  o'er  the  waters  broods  the  tempest  dark, 
And  the  wild  winds  howl  on. 


VII. 


But  hark  !  amid  the  madness  of  the  storm 
There  comes  an  echo  o'er  the  surging  wave  ; 
Firm  at  its  call  the  dauntless  legions  form, 
The  resolute  and  brave. 


VIII. 


Eight  hundred  men,  the  pride  of  England's  host, 
In  stern  array  stand  marshall'd  on  her  deck, 


8Q  WAR  POETRY    OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Calmly  as  though  they  knew  not  they  were  lost — 
Lost  in  that  shattered  wreck. 


IX. 


Eight  hundred  men, — old  England's  tried  and  true, 
Their  hopes,  their  fears,  their  tasks  of  glory  done, 
Steadfast,  till  the  last  foe  be  conquered  too, 
And  the  last  fight  be  won. 


Free  floats  their  banner  o'er  them  as  they  stand  ; 
No  mournful  dirge  may  o'er  the  waters  ring  ; 
Out  peals  the  anthem,  glorious  and  grand, 
"  The  king  !  God  save  the  king  P 

XI. 

Lower  and  lower  sinks  the  fated  bark, 
Closer  and  closer  creeps  the  ruthless  wave, 
But  loud  outs  wells,  across  the  waters  dark, 
The  death-song  of  the  brave. 

XII. 

Over  their  heads  the  gurgling  billows  sweep ; 
Still  o'er  the  waves  the  last  fond  echoes  ring, 
Out-thrilling  from  the  caverns  of  the  deep, 
"  The  king  !  God  save  the  king  !" 


CHARLESTON. 


XIII. 


Oh  thou  !  whoe'er  them  art  that  reads  this  page, 
Learn  here  a  lesson  of  high,  holy  faith, 
For  all  throughout  our  earthly  pilgrimage, 
We  hold  a  tryst  with  death. 


XIV. 


Not  in  the  battle-field's  tumultuous  strife, 
Not  in  the  hour  when  vanquished  foemen  fly, 
Not  in  the  midst  of  bright  and  happy  life, 
Is  it  most  hard  to  die. 


xv. 


Greater  the  guerdon,  holier  the  prize, 
Of  him  who  trusts,  and  waits  in  lowly  mood  ; 
Oh  !  learn  how  high,  how  holy  courage  lies 
In  patient  fortitude. 


CHARLESTON. 

BY   HENRY   TIMROD. 

CALM  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds,  . 

The  city  bides  the  foe. 


WAR  POETRY  Of   THE  SOUTH. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts,  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 


No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scaur 

To  guard  the  holy  strand  ; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war, 

Above  the  level  sand. 


And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched. 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched, 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 


Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen. 


And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 


CHARLESTON.  33 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof,  and  spire,  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 


Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 


But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  spring  dawn,  and  she  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 


We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom  ; 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 


84;  WAR  POETS Y  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


CHARLESTON. 

BY   PAUL    H.    HAYNE. 
I. 

WHAT  !  still  does  the  Mother  of  Treason  uprear 
Her  crest  'gainst  the  Furies  that  darken  her  sea  ? 

Unquelled  by  mistrust,  and  unblanched  by  a  Fear, 
Unbowed  her  proud  head,  and  unbending  her  knee, 
Calm,  steadfast,  and  free  ? 


n. 

Aye  !  launch  your  red  lightnings,  blaspheme  in  your  wrath, 
Shock  earth,  wave,  and  heaven  with  the  blasts  of  your 

ire  ; — 

But  she  seizes  your  death-bolts,  yet  hot  from  their  path, 
And  hurls  back  your  lightnings,  and  mocks  at  the  fire 
Of  your  fruitless  desire. 


in. 

Ringed  round  by  her  Brave,  a  fierce  circlet  of  flame, 
Flashes  up  from  the  sword-points  that  cover  her  breast ; 

She  is  guarded  by  Love,  and  enhaloed  by  Fame, 

And  never,  we  swear,  shall  your  footsteps  be  pressed 
Where  her  dead  heroes  rest  1 


CHARLESTON.  85 


Her  voice  shook  the  Tyrant !— sublime  from  her  tongue 
Fell  the  accents  of  warning, — a  Prophetess  grand, — 

On  her  soil  the  first  life-notes  of  Liberty  rung, 
And  the  first  stalwart  blow  of  her  gauntleted  hand 
Broke  the  sleep  of  her  land  ! 

v. 

What  more  !  she  hath  grasped  with  her  iron-bound  will 
The  Fate  that  would  trample  her  honor  to  earth, — 

The  light  in  those  deep  eyes  is  luminous  still 

With  the  warmth  of  her  valor,  the  glow  of  her  worth, 
Which  illumine  the  Earth  ! 

VI. 

And  beside  her  a  Knight  the  great  Bayard  had  loved, 
"  Without  fear  or  reproach,"  lifts  her  Banner  on  high  ; 

He  stands  in  the  vanguard,  majestic,  unmoved, 

And  a  thousand  firm  souls,  when  that  Chieftain  is  nigh, 
Vow,  "  'tis  easy  to  die  !" 

VII. 

Their  swords  have  gone  forth  on  the  fetterless  air  ! 

The  world's  breath  is  hushed  at  the  conflict  !  before 
Gleams  the  bright  form  of  Freedom  with  wreaths  in  her  hair 

And  what  though  the  chaplet  be-  crimsoned  with  gore, 
We  shall  prize  her  the  more  ! 


POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


And  while  Freedom  lures  on  with  her  passionate  eyes 
To  the  height  of  her  promise,  the  voices  of  yor<j, 

From  the  storied  Profound  of  past  ages  arise, 
And  the  pomps  of  their  magical  music  outpour 
O'er  the  war-beaten  shore. 

IX. 

Then  gird  your  brave  Empress,  0  !  Heroes,  with  flame 
Flashed  up  from  the  sword-points  that  cover  her  breast, 

She  is  guarded  by  Love,  and  enhaloed  by  Fame, 

And  never,  base  Foe  !  shall  your  footsteps  be  pressed 
Where  her  dead  Martyrs  rest ! 


"YE   MEN   OF   ALABAMA!" 

BY  JOHN  D.  PHELAN,  OF  MONTGOMERY,  ALA. 

AIR — "Ye  Mariners  of  England." 

I. 

YE  men  of  Alabama, 

Awake,  arise,  awake  1 
And  rend  the  coils  asunder 

Of  this  Abolition  snake. 
If  another  fold  he  fastens — 

If  this  final  coil  he  plies — 


"  YE  MEN  OF  ALABAMA." 

In  the  cold  clasp  of  hate  and  power 
Fair  Alabama  dies. 

n. 

Though  round  your  lower  limbs  and  waist 

His  deadly  coils  I  see, 
Yet,  yet,  thank  Heaven  !  your  head  and  arms, 

And  good  right  hand,  are  free  ; 
And  in  that  hand  there  glistens — 

0  God  !  what  joy  to  feel  1— 
A  polished  blade,  full  sharp  and  keen, 

Of  tempered  State  Rights  steel. 

ni. 

Now,  by  the  free-born  sires 

From  whose  brave  loins  ye  sprung  ! 
And  by  the  noble  mothers 

At  whose  fond  breasts  ye  hung  ! 
And  by  your  wives  and  daughters, 

And  by  the  ills  they  dread, 
Drive  deep  that  good  Secession  steel 

Right  through  the  Monster's  head. 

IV. 

This  serpent  Abolition 

Has  been  coiling  on  for  years  ; 
We  have  reasoned,  we  have  threatened, 

We  have  begged  almost  with  tears  : 


WAR   POETRY  OP  THE  SOUTH. 

Now,  away,  away  with  Union, 

Since  on  our  Southern  soil 
The  only  union  left  us 

Is  an  anaconda's  coil. 

v. 

Brave  little  South  Carolina 

Will  strike  the  self-same  blow, 
And  Florida,  and  Georgia, 

And  Mississippi  too  ; 
And  Arkansas,  and  Texas  ; 

And  at  the  death,  I  ween, 
The  head  will  fall  beneath  the  blows 

Of  all  the  brave  Fifteen. 

VI. 

In  this  our  day  of  trial, 

Let  feuds  and  factions  cease, 
Until  above  this  howling  storm 

We  see  the  sign  of  Peace. 
Let  Southern  men,  like  brothers, 

In  solid  phalanx  stand, 
And  poise  their  spears,  and  lock  their  shields, 

To  guard  their  native  land. 

VII. 

The  love  that  for  the  Union 
Once  in  our  bosoms  beat, 


NEO  TEMERE,   NEC  TIMID K 

From  insult  and  from  injury 
Has  turned  to  scorn  and  hate  ; 

And  the  banner  of  Secession 
To-day  we  lift  on  high, 

Resolved,  beneath  that  sacred  flag*, 
To  conquer,  or  TO  DIE  ! 

MONTGOMERY  ADVERTISER,  October,  1860. 


NEC   TEMERE,  NEC   TIM  IDE. 

BY  ANNIE  CHAMBERS  KETCHUM. 

GENTLEMEN  OF  THE  SOUTH, 

Gird  on  your  glittering  swords  ! 

Darkly  along  our  borders  fail- 
Gather  the  Northern  hordes. 

Ruthless  and  fierce  they  come 
At  the  fiery  cannon's  mouth, 

To  blast  the  glory  of  our  land, 
Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Ride  forth  in  your  stately  pride, 
Each  bearing  on  his  shield 

Ensigns  our  fathers  won  of  yore 
On  many  a  well-fought  field  ! 

Let  this  be  your  battle-cry, 

Even  to  the  cannon's  mouth, 
5 


90  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Cor  unuin  via  una  !     Onward, 
Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Brave  knights  of  a  knightly  race, 

Gordon,  and  Chambers,  and  Gray, 
Show  to  the  minions  of  the  North 

How  Valor  dares  the  fray  ! 
Let  them  read  on  each  stainless  crest 

At  the  belching  cannon's  mouth, 
Decori  decus  addit  avito, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Morrison,  Douglas,  Stuart, 

Erskine,  and  Bradford,  and  West, 
Your  gauntlets  on  many  a  bloody  field 

Have  stood  the  battle's  test ! 
Ammo  non  astutia  ! 

March  to  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Heirs  of  the  brave  dead  centuries  !     Onward, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Call  forth  your  stalwart  men, 

Workers  in  brass  and  steel ! 
Bid  the  swart  artisans  come  forth 

At  sound  of  the  trumpet's  peal  ! 
Give  them  your  war-cry,  Erskine  ! 

Fight!  to  the  cannon's  mouth  ! 
Bid  the  men  Forward  !  Douglas,  Forward  ! 

Yeomanry  of  the  South  1 


N£G  TEUERE,  NEC  TIMID  S.  91 

Bravo  hunters  !     Te  have  met 

The  fierce  black  bear  in  the  fray ; 
Ye  have  trailed  the  panther  night  by  night, 

Ye  have  chased  the  fox  by  day  ! 
Your  prancing  chargers  pant 

To  dash  at  the  gray  wolf's  mouth, 
Your  arms  are  sure  of  their  quarry  !     Onward  ! 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

Fight !  that  the  lowly  serf 

And  the  high-born  lady  still 
May  bide  in  their  proud  dependency, 

Free  subjects  of  your  will  ! 
Teach  the  base  North  how  ill, 

At  the  fiery  cannon's  mouth, 
He  fares  who  touches  your  household  gods, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

From  mother,  and  wife,  and  child, 

From  faithful  and  happy  slave, 
Prayers  for  your  sakes  ascend  to  Him 

Whose  arm  is  strong  to  save  ! 
We  check  the  gathering  tears, 

Though  ye  go  to  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 
Dominus  providebit !     Onward, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 
MEMI-UIS  APPEAL. 


92 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 
DIXIE. 

BY  ALBERT  PIKE. 
I. 

SOUTHRONS,  hear  your  Country  call  you  ! 
Up  !  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you  ! 

To  anus  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie  ! 
Lo  !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted, 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Hurrah  !   hurrah  ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we'll  take  our  stand, 

To  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 
To  arms  !  to  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 
To  arms  !  to  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

IT. 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter  1 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance  ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance  1 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 


DIXIE. 

III. 

Fear  no  danger  !  shun  no  labor  I 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre  ! 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder  ! 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie,  etc. 


IV. 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannon's  ringing  voices  ; 

To  arms  !  etc. 

For  faith  betrayed  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrong  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 

To  arms  I  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie,  etc. 


v. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles  1 

To  arms  1  etc. 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder  ! 
Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder  ! 
To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  1  etc. 


94:  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

VI. 

Swear  upon  your  Country's  altar, 
Never  to  submit  or  falter  ; 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

VII. 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 

Secures  among  earth's  Powers  its  station 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story  ! 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

vm. 

]f  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness  ; 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow  ; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms  !  etc. 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 


THE  OLD  RIFLEMAN.  95 

THE  OLD  RIFLEMAN. 

BY  FRANK  TICKNOR,   OF  GEORGIA. 

Now  bring  me  out  my  buckskin  suit  I 

My  pouch  and  powder,  too  ! 
We'll  see  if  seventy-six  can  shoot 

As  sixteen  used  to  do. 


Old  Bess  !  we've  kept  our  barrels  bright  I 

Our  trigger  quick  and  true  ! 
As  far,  if  not  asjine  a  sight, 

As  long  ago  we  drew  ! 


And  pick  me  out  a  trusty  flint  1 
A  real  white  and  blue, 

Perhaps  'twill  win  the  other  tint 
Before  the  hunt  is  through  ! 


Give  boys  your  brass  percussion  caps  ! 

Old  "  shut-pan"  suits  as  well  ! 
There's  something  in  the  sparks:  perhaps 

There's  something  in  the  smell  ! 


We've  seen  the  red-coat  Briton  bleed 
The  red-skin  Indian,  too  ! 


96  WAR  POETRY  Of    THE  SOUTH. 

We've  never  thought  to  draw  a  bead 
On  Yanke-doodle-doo  ! 

But,  Bessie  !  bless  your  dear  old  heart  ! 

Those  days  are  mostly  done  ; 
And  now  we  must  revive  the  art 

Of  shooting  on  the  run  ! 

If  Doodle  must  be  meddling,  why, 

There's  only  this  to  do — 
Select  the  black  spot  in  his  eye, 

And  let  the  daylight  through  ! 

And  if  he  doesn't  like  the  way 
That  Bess  presents  the  view, 

He'll  maybe  change  his  mind,  and  stay 
Where  the  good  Doodles  do  ! 

Where  Lincoln  lives.     The  man,  you  know, 

Who  kissed  the  Testament  ; 
To  keep  the  Constitution  ?     No  ! 

To  keep  the  Government  ! 

We'll  hunt  for  Lincoln,  Bess  !  old  tool, 
And  take  him  half  and  half  ; 

We'll  aim  to  hit  him,  if  a  fool, 
And  miss  him,  if  a  calf ! 


BATTLE  HYMN  97 

We'll  teach  these  shot-gun  boys  the  tricks 

By  which  a  war  is  won  ; 
Especially  how  Seventy-six 

Took  Tories  on  the  run. 


BATTLE    HYMN. 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 

LORD  of  Hosts,  that  beholds  us  in  battle,  defending 

The  homes  of  our  sires  'gainst  the  hosts  of  the  foe, 
Send  us  help  on  the  wings  of  thy  angels  descending, 

And  shield  from  his  terrors,  and  baffle  his  blow. 
Warm  the  faith  of  our  sons,  till  they  flame  as  the  iron, 

Red-glowing  from  the  fire-forge,  kindled  by  zeal  ; 
Make  them  forward  to  grapple  the  hordes  that  environ, 

In  the  storm-rush  of  battle,  through  forests  of  steel  ! 

Teach  them,  Lord,  that  the  cause  of  their  country  makes 
glorious 

The  martyr  who  falls  in  the  front  of  the  fight  ; — 
That  the  faith  which  is  steadfast  makes  ever  victorious 

The  arm  which  strikes  boldly  defending  the  right ; — 
That  the  zeal,  which  is  roused  by  the  wrongs  of  a  nation, 

Is  a  war-horse  that  sweeps  o'er  the  field  as  his  own  ; 
And  the  Faith,  which  is  winged  by  the  soul's  approbation, 

Is  a  warrior,  in  proof,  that  can  ne'er  be  overthrown. 
5* 


98  WAX  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

KENTUCKY,    SHE    IS    SOLD 

BY   J.    R.    BARRICK,    OF    KENTUCKY. 

A  TEAR  for  "  the  dark  and  bloody  ground," 

For  the  land  of  hills  and  caves  ; 
Her  Kentons,  Boones,  and  her  Shelb}^  sloop 

Where  the  vandals  tread  their  graves  ; 
A  sigh  for  the  loss  of  her  honored  fame, 

Dear  won  in  the  days  of  old  ; 
Her  ship  is  manned  by  a  foreign  crew, 

For  Kentucky,  she  is  sold. 

The  bones  of  her  sons  lie  bleaching  on 

The  plains  of  Tippecanoe, 
On  the  field  of  Raisin  her  blood  was  shed, 

As  free  as  the  summer's  dew  ; 
In  Mexico  her  McRee  and  Clay 

Were  first  of  the  brave  and  bold — 
A  change  has  been  in  her  bosom  wrought, 

For  Kentucky,  she  is  sold. 

Pride  of  the  free,  was  that  noble  State, 
And  her  banner  still  were  so, 

Had  the  iron  heel  of  the  despot  not 
Her  prowess  sunk  so  low  ; 

Her  valleys  once  were  the  freeman's  home, 
Her  valor  unbought  with  gold, 


SONNET— THE  SHIP  OF  STATE.  99 

But  now  the  pride  of  her  life  is  fled, 
For  Kentucky,  she  is  sold 

Her  brave  would  once  have  scorned  to  wear 

The  yoke  that  crushes  her  now, 
And  the  tyrant  grasp,  and  the  vandal  tread, 

Would  sullen  have  made  her  brow  ; 
Her  spirit  yet  will  be  wakened  up, 

And  her  saddened  fate  be  told, 
Her  gallant  sons  to  the  world  yet  prove 

That  Kentucky  is  not  sold. 


SONNET— THE  SHIP  OF  STATE. 

HERE  lie  the  peril  and  necessity 

That  need  a  race  of  giants — a  great  realm, 
With  not  one  noble  leader  at  the  helm  ; 

And  the  great  Ship  of  State  still  driving  high, 
'Midst  breakers,  on  a  lee  shore — to  the  rocks. 
With  ever  and  anon  most  terrible  shocks — 

The  crew  aghast,  and  fear  in  every  eye. 

Yet  is  the  gracious  Providence  still  nigh  ; 
And,  if  our  cause  be  just,  our  hearts  be  true, 
We  shall  save  goodly  ship  and  gallant  crew, 

Nor  suffer  shipwreck  of  our  liberty  ! 
It  needs  that  as  a  people  we  arise, 
With  solemn  purpose  that  even  fate  defies, 

And  brave  all  perils  with  unblenching  eye  I 

CHARLESTON  MERCURY. 


100  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"IN   HIS   BLANKET   ON   THE   GROUND." 

BY    CAROLINE    H.    GERVAIS,  CHARLESTON. 

WEARY,  weary  lies  the  soldier, 

In  his  blanket  on  the  ground 
With  no  sweet  "Good-night"  to  cheer  him, 

And  no  tender  voice's  sound, 
Making  music  in  the  darkness, 

Making  light  his  toilsome  hours, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  forest, 

Or  a  tomb  wreathed  o'er  with  flowers. 

Thoughtful,  hushed,  he  lies,  and  tearful, 

As  his  memories  sadly  roam 
To  the  "  cozy  little  parlor" 

Arid  the  loved  ones  of  his  home  ; 
And  his  waking  and  his  dreaming 

Softly  braid  themselves  in  one, 
As  the  twilight  is  the  mingling 

Of  the  starlight  and  the  sun. 

And  when  sleep  descends  upon  him, 
Still  his  thought  within  his  dream 

Is  of  home,  and  friends,  and  loved  ones, 
And  his  busy  fancies  seem 

To  be  real,  as  they  wander 

To  his  mother's  cherished  form. 


ltJN  HIS  BLANKET  ON  THE 'ft ROUNDS  } 

As  she  gently  said,  in  parting 

"  Thine  in  sunshine  and  in  storm  : 

Thine  in  helpless  childhood's  morning, 
And  in  boyhood's  joyous  time, 

Thou  must  leave  me  now — God  watch  thee 
In  thy  manhood's  ripened  prime." 

Or,  mayhap,  amid  the  phantoms 

Teeming  thick  within  his  brain, 
His  dear  father's  locks,  o'er-silvered, 

Come  to  greet  his  view  again  ; 
And  he  hears  his  trembling  accents, 

Like  a  clarion  ringing  high, 
"Since  not  mine  are  youth  and  strength,  boy, 

Thou  must  victor  prove,  or  die." 

Or  perchance  he  hears  a  whisper 

Of  the  faintest,  faintest  sigh, 
Something  deeper  than  word-spoken, 

Something  breathing  of  a  tie 
Near  his  soul  as  bounding  heart-Hood  : 

It  is  hers,  that  patient  wife — 
And  again  that  parting  seemeth 

Like  the  taking  leave  of  life  : 
And  her  last  kiss  he  remembers, 

And  the  agonizing*  thrill, 
And  the  "  Must  you  goT"  and  answer, 

"Ibid  know  my  Country's  mil." 


WAR 'POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Or  the  little  children  gather, 

Half  in  wonder,  round  his  knees  ; 
And  the  faithful  dog,  mute,  watchful, 

In  the  mystic  glass  he  sees  ; 
And  the  voice  of  song,  and  pictures, 

And  the  simplest  homestead  flowers, 
Unforgotten,  crowd  before  him 

In  the  solemn  midnight  hours. 


Then  his  thoughts  in  Dreamland  wander 

To  a  sister's  sweet  caress, 
And  he  feels  her  dear  lips  quiver 

As  his  own  they  fondly  press  ; 
And  he  hears  her  proudly  saying, 

(Though  sad  tears  are  in  her  eyes), 
"  Brave  men  fall,  but  live  in  story, 

For  the  Hero  never  dies  !" 


Or,  perhaps,  his  brown  cheek  flushes, 

And  his  heart  beats  quicker  now, 
As  he  thinks  of  one  who  gave  him, 

Him,  the  loved  one,  love's  sweet  vow 
And,  ah,  fondly  he  remembers 

He  is  still  her  dearest  care, 
Even  in  his  star-watched  slumber 

That  she  pleads  for  him  in  prayer. 


"72V  HIS  BLANKET  ON  THE  GROUND." 

Oh,  the  soldier  will  be  dreaming, 

Dreaming  often  of  us  all, 
(When  the  damp  earth  is  his  pillow, 

And  the  snow  and  cold  sleet  fall), 
Of  the  dear,  familiar  faces, 

Of  the  cozy,  curtained  room, 
Of  the  flitting  of  the  shadows 

In  the  twilight's  pensive  gloom. 

Or  when  summer  suns  burn  o'er  him, 

Bringing  drought  and  dread  disease, 
And  the  throes  of  wasting  fever 

Come  his  weary  frame  to  seize — 
In  the  restless  sleep  of  sickness, 

Doomed,  perchance,  to  martyr  death, 
Hear  him  whisper  "  Home" — sweet  cadence, 

With  his  quickened,  labored  breath. 


Then  God  bless  him,  bless  the  soldier, 

And  God  nerve  him  for  the  fight ; 
May  He  lend  his  arm  new  prowess 

To  do  battle  for  the  right. 
Let  him  feel  that  while  he's  dreaming 

In  his  fitful  slumber  bound, 
That  we're  praying—  God  watch  o'er  him 

In  his  blanket  on  the  ground. 


WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH, 


THE   MOUNTAIN   PARTISAN. 


MY  rifle,  pouch,  and  knife  ! 

My  steed  !     And  then  we  part  ! 
One  loving  kiss,  dear  wife, 

One  press  of  heart  to  heart  ! 
Cling  to  me  yet  awhile, 

But  stay  the  sob,  the  tear  ! 
Smile  —  only  try  to  smile  — 

And  I  go  without  a  fear. 


n. 


Our  little  cradled  boy, 

He  sleeps  —  and  in  his  sleep, 
Smiles,  with  an  angel  joy, 

Which  tells  thee  not  to  weep. 
I'll  kneel  beside,  and  kiss  — 

He  will  not  wake  the  while, 
Thus  dreaming  of  the  bliss, 

That  bids  thee,  too,  to  smile. 


in. 


Think  not,  dear  wife,  I  go, 

With  a  light  thought  at  my  heart 
'Tis  a  pang  akin  to  woe, 

That  fills  me  as  we  part  ; 


THE  MOUNTAIN  PARTISAN. 

But  when  the  wolf  was  heard 

To  howl  around  our  lot, 
Thou  know'st,  dear  mother-bird, 

I  slew  him  on  the  spot ! 

IV. 

Aye,  panther,  wolf,  and  bear, 

Have  perish'd  'neath  my  knife  ; 
Why  tremble,  then,  with  fear, 

When  now  I  go,  my  wife  ? 
Shall  I  not  keep  the  peace, 

That  made  our  cottage  dear  ; 
And  'till  these  wolf-curs  cease 

Shall  I  be  housing  here  ? 

v. 

One  loving  kiss,  dear  wife, 

One  press  of  heart  to  heart ; 
Then  for  the  deadliest  strife, 

For  freedom  I  depart  ! 
I  were  of  little  worth, 

Were  these  Yankee  wolves  left  free 
To  ravage  'round  our  hearth, 

And  bring  one  grief  to  thee  1 

VI 

God's  blessing  on  thee,  wife, 
God's  blessing  on  the  young  : 


106  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Pray  for  me  through  the  strife, 
And  teach  our  infant's  tongue. 

Whatever  haps  in  fight, 
I  shall  be  true  to  thee — 

To  the  home  of  our  delight — 
To  my  people  of  the  free. 


THE   CAMEO   BRACELET. 

BY  JAMES  R.  RANDALL,  OF  MARYLAND. 

EVA  sits  on  the  ottoman  there, 
Sits  by  a  Psyche  carved  in  stone, 

With  just  such  a  face,  and  just  such  an  air, 
As  Esther  upon  her  throne. 

She's  sifting  lint  for  the  brave  who  bleed, 
And  I  watch  her  fingers  float  and  flow 

Over  the  linen,  as,  thread  by  thread, 
It  flakes  to  her  lap  like  snow. 

A  bracelet  clinks  on  her  delicate  wrist, 
Wrought,  as  Cellini's  were  at  Rome, 

Out  of  the  tears  of  the  amethyst, 
And  the  wan  Vesuvian  foam. 

And  full  on  the  bauble-crest  alway — 
A  cameo  image  keen  and  fine — 


THE  CAMEO  BRACELET.  197 

Glares  thy  impetuous  knife,  Corday, 
And  the  lava-locks  are  thine  ! 


I  thought  of  the  war-wolves  on  our  trail, 

Their  gaunt  fangs  sluiced  with  gouts  of  blood  ; 

Till  the  Past,  in  a  dead,  mesmeric  veil, 
Drooped  with  a  wizard  flood 

Till  the  surly  blaze  through  the  iron  bars 
Shot  to  the  hearth  with  a  pang  and  cry— 

And  a  lank  howl  plunged  from  the  Champ  de  Mars 
To  the  Column  of  July — 

Till  Corday  sprang  from  the  gem,  I  swear, 
And  the  dove-eyed  damsel  I  knew  had  flown  — 

For  Eva  was  not  on  the  ottoman  there, 
By  the  Psyche  carved  in  stone. 

She  grew  like  a  Pythoness  flushed  with  fate, 

With  the  incantation  in  her  gaze, 
A  lip  of  scorn — an  arm  of  hate — 

And  a  dirge  of  the  "Marseillaise  !" 

Eva,  the  vision  was  not  wild, 

When  wreaked  on  the  tyrants  of  the  land 

For  you  were  transfigured  to  Nemesis,  child, 

With  the  dagger  in  your  hand  ! 


108  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

ZOLLICOFFER. 

BY    H.  L.  FLASH,  OF  ALABAMA. 

*IRST  in  the  fight,  and  first  in  the  arms 
Of  the  white-winged  angels  of  glory, 

With  the  heart  of  the  South  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  his  wounds  to  tell  the  story  : 


And  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  hero  heart, 
On  the  spot  where  he  nobly  perished, 

Was  drunk  by  the  earth  as  a  sacrament 
In  the  holy  cause  he  cherished. 


In  Heaven  a  home  with  the  brave  and  blessed, 

And,  for  his  soul's  sustaining, 
The  apocalyptic  eyes  of  Christ — 

And  nothing  on  earth  remaining, 


But  a  handful  of  dust  in  the  land  of  his  choice, 

A  name  in  song  and  story, 
And  Fame  to  shout  with  her  brazen  voice, 

"  Died  on  the  Field  of  Glory  1" 


BE  A  UBEGARD.  \  09 


BEAUREGARD. 

BY  CATHARINE  A.  WARFIELD,  OF  MISSISSIPPI. 

LET  the  trumpet  shout  once  more, 

Beauregard  ! 

Let  the  battle-thunders  roar, 

Beauregard  ! 

And  again  by  yonder  sea, 

Let  the  swords  of  all  the  free 

.Leap  forth  to  fight  with  thee, 

Beauregard  ! 

Old  Sumter  loves  thy  name, 

Beauregard  ! 
Grim  Moultrie  guards  thy  fame, 

Beauregard  I 

Oh  !  first  in  Freedom's  fight ! 
Oh  I  steadfast  in  the  right ! 
Oh  !  brave  and  Christian  Knight ! 

Beauregard  1 

St.  Michael  with  his  host, 

Beauregard  I 
Encamps  by  yonder  coast, 

Beauregard  1 


WAR  POETRY    OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  the  Demon's  might  shall  quail, 
And  the  Dragon's  terrors  fail, 
Were  he  trebly  clad  in  mail, 

Beauregard  ! 

Not  a  leaf  shall  fall  away, 

Beauregard  1 
From  the  laurel  won  to-day, 

Beauregard  ! 

While  the  ocean  breezes  blow, 
While  the  billows  lapse  and  flow 
O'er  the  Northman's  bones  below, 

Beauregard ! 

Let  the  trumpet  shout  once  more, 

Beauregard ! 

Let  the  battle-thunders  roar, 

Beauregard  1 

From  the  centre  to  the  shore, 

From  the  sea  to  the  land's  core 

Thrills  the  echo,  evermore, 

Beauregard ! 


SOUTH  CAROLINA. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

1719.  Colonial  Revolution. 

1763.  Colonial  History— Progress. 

1776.  American  Revolution. 

1812-15.  Second  War  with  Great  Britain 

1830-32.  Nullification  for  State  Rights. 

1835-40.  Florida  War. 

1847.   Mexican  War — Palmetto  Regiment. 

1860-61.  Secession,  and  Third  War  for  Independence. 


MY  brave  old  Country  !  I  have  watched  thee  long 

Still  ever  first  to  rise  against  the  wrong  ; 

To  check  the  usurper  in  his  giant  stride, 

And  brave  his  terrors  and  abase  his  pride  ; 

Foresee  the  insidious  danger  ere  it  rise, 

And  warn  the  heedless  and  inform  the  wise  ; 

Scorning  the  lure,  the  bribe,  the  selfish  game, 

Which,  through  the  office,  still  becomes  the  shame  ; 

Thou  stood?st  aloof — superior  to  the  fate 

That  would  have  wrecked  thy  freedom  as  a  State. 

In  vain  the  despot's  threat,  his  cunning  lure  ; 

Too  proud  thy  spirit,  and  thy  heart  too  pure  ; 

Thou  hadst  no  quest  but  freedom,  and  to  be 

Li  conscience  well-assured,  and  people  free. 

The  statesman's  lore  was  thine,  the  patriot's  aim, 

These  kept  thee  virtuous,  and  preserved  thy  fame  ; 

The  wisdom  still  for  council,  the  brave  voice, 

That  thrills  a  people  till  they  all  rejoice. 

These  were  thy  birthrights  ;   and  two  centuries  pass'd, 

As,  at  the  first,  still  find  thee  at  the  last  ; 


111 


POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


Supreme  in  council,  resolute  in  will, 
Pure  in  thy  purpose  —  independent  still  ! 

The  great  good  counsels,  the  examples  brave, 

Won  from  the  past,  not  buried  in  its  grave, 

Still  warm  your  soul  with  courage  —  still  impar 

Wisdom  to  virtue,  valor  to  the  heart  ! 

Still  first  to  check  th'  encroachment  —  to  declare 

"  Thus  far  !  no  further,  shall  the  assailant  dare  ;" 

Thou  keep'st  thy  ermine  white,  thy  State  secure, 

Thy  fortunes  prosperous,  and  thy  freedom  sure  ; 

No  glozing  art  deceives  thee  to  thy  bane  ; 

The  tempter  and  the  usurper  strive  in  vain  ! 

Thy  spear's  first  touch  unfolds  the  fiendish  form, 

And  first,  with  fearless  breast,  thou  meet'st  the  storm  ; 

Though  hosts  assail  thee,  thou  thyself  a  host, 

Prepar'st  to  meet  the  invader  on  the  coast  : 

Thy  generous  sons  contending  which  shall  be 

First  in  the  phalanx,  gathering  by  the  sea  ; 

No  dastard  fear  appals  them,  as  they  teach 

How  best  to  hurl  the  bolt,  or  man  the  breach  1 

Great  Soul  in  little  frame  !  —  the  hope  of  man 
Exults,  when  such  as  thou  art  in  the  van  I 
Unshaken,  unbeguiled,  unslaved,  unbought, 
Thy  fame  shall  brighten  with  each  battle  fought  ; 
True  to  the  examples  of  the  past,  thou'lt  be, 
For  the  long  future,  best  security. 

CHABLESTON  MKHCTJBY.  GoSSYPIUtf. 


CAROLINA. 

CAROLINA. 

BY  HENRY  TIMROD. 
I. 

THE  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina  ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm  ; 
Oh  !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina  ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim  ; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle  hymn, 

Carolina  ! 


Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina  ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina ! 


WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields,  and  fens,  and  meres, 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm,  with  spears, 
Carolina  ! 

in. 

Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead  ; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  Eutaw's  battle-bed, 

Carolina  ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied  ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled,  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina  ! 

Cry  !  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall,  like  Marion's  bugle-blast, 
Re-echoed  from  the  haunted  past, 

Carolina  ! 

IV. 

I  hear  a  murmur,  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina  ! 

And  now  it  deepens  ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as  rolling  to  the  land 
An  ocean  broke  upon  the  strand, 

Carolina  ! 


CAROLINA. 

Shout  !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns  ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns  ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 
Carolina  ! 

v. 

They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call  ; 
From  Sachem's  head  to  Sumter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 

Carolina  ! 

No  !  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 

Carolina  ! 

Thy  skirts,  indeed,  the  foe  rnay  part, 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 

Carolina  ! 

VI. 

Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  thrall, 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall  ; 
Thy  corpse  may  hearken  to  his  call, 

Carolina  ! 

When  by  thy  bier,  in  mournful  throngs, 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
'Twill  be  their  own  funereal  songs, 

Carolina  ! 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

From  thy  dead  breast,  by  ruffians  trod, 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God  ; 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  thy  sod, 
Carolina  ! 

VII. 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 

Carolina  ! 

Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze  ! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas, 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina  ! 

Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns  ; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 

Carolina  ! 


MY  MOTHER-LAND.  \  ]  7 

MY  MOTHER-LAND. 

BY  PAUL  H.  HAYNE. 

"  Animis,  Opibusquc  Parati" 

MY  Mother-land  !  thou  wert  the  first  to  fling1 

Thy  virgin  flag-  of  freedom  to  the  breeze, 

The  first  to  humble,  in  thy  neighboring  seas, 

The  imperious  despot's  power  ; 

But  long  before  that  hour, 

While  yet,  in  false  and  vain  imagining, 

Thy  sister  nations  would  not  own  their  foe, 

And  turned  to  jest  thy  warnings,  though  the  low, 

Deep,  awful  mutterings,  that  precede  the  throe 

Of  earthquakes,  burdened  all  the  ominous  air  ; 

While  yet  they  paused  in  scorn, 

Of  fatal  madness  born, — 

Thou,  oh,  my  Mother  !  like  a  priestess  bless'd 

With  wondrous  vision  of  the  things  to  come, 

Thou  couldst  not  calmly  rest 

Secure  and  dumb — 

But  from  thy  borders,  with  the  sounds  of  drum 

And  trumpet,  came  the  thrilling  note,  "  PREPARE  !" 

"  Prepare  for  what  ?"  thy  careless  sisters  said  ; 

"  We  see  no  threatening  tempest  overhead, 

Only  a  few  pale  clouds,  the  west  wind's  breath 

Will  sweep  away,  or  melt  in  watery  death." 


118  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

11  Prepare  1"  the  time  grows  ripe  to  meet  our  doom  1 

Alas  !  it  was  not  till  the  thunder-boom 

Of  shell  and  cannon  shocked  the  vernal  day, 

Which  shone  o'er  Charleston  Bay — 

When  the  tamed  "  Stars  and  Stripes"  before  us  bowed- 

That  startled,  roused,  the  last  scale  fallen  away 

From  blinded  eyes,  our  SOUTH,  erect  and  proud, 

Fronted  the  issue,  and,  though  lulled  too  long, 

Felt  her  great  spirit  nerved,  her  patriot  valor  strong. 


But  darker  days  have  found  us — 'gainst  the  horde 
Of  robber  Northmen,  who,  with  torch  and  sword, 

Approach  to  desecrate 

The  sacred  hearthstone  and  the  Temple-gate — 
Who  would  defile  our  fathers'  graves,  and  cast 
Their  ashes  to  the  blast — 
Yea  !  who  declare,  "  we  will  annihilate 
The  very  bound-lines  of  your  sovereign  State" — 
Against  this  ravening  flood 
Of  foul  invaders,  drunk  with  lust  and  blood, 

Oh  !  we, 

Strong  in  the  strength  of  God-supported  might, 
Go  forth  to  give  our  foe  no  paltry  fight, 

Nor  basely  yield 

To  venal  legions  a  scarce  blood-dewed  field — 
But  witness,  Heaven  !  if  such  the  need  should  be, 
To  make  our  fated  land  one  vast  Thermopylaa  I 


MY  MOTHER-LAND. 

Death  !     What  of  Death  ? — 
Oan  he  who  once  drew  honorable  breath 

In  liberty's  pure  sphere, 

Foster  a  sensual  fear, 

When  death  and  slavery  meet  him  face  to  face, 
Saying  :  "  Choose  thou  between  us  ;  here,  the  grace 
Which  follows  patriot  martyrdom,  and  there, 
Black  degradation,  haunted  by  despair." 


Death  !     What  of  Death  ?— 
The  vilest  reptiles,  brutes  or  men,  who  crawl 
Across  their  portion  of  this  earthly  ball, 
Share  life  and  motion  with  us  ;  would  we  strive 
Like  such  to  creep  alive, 
Polluted,  loathsome,  only  that  with  sin 
We  still  might  keep  our  mortal  breathings  in  ? 


The  very  thought  brings  blushes  to  the  cheek  ! 
I  hear  all  'round  about  me  murmurs  run, 
Hot  murmurs,  but  soon  merging  into  ONE 
Soul-stirring  utterance — hark  !  the  people  speak 


"  Our  course  is  righteous,  and  our  aims  are  just 

Behold,  we  seek 

Not  merely  to  preserve  for  noble  wives 
The  virtuous  pride  of  unpolluted  lives, 


j[20  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

To  shield  our  daughters  from  the  ruffian's  hand, 
And  leave  our  sons  their  heirloom  of  command, 

In  generous  perpetuity  of  trust  ; 
Not  only  to  defend  those  ancient  laws, 
Which  Saxon  sturdiness  and  Norman  fire 
AVelded  forevermore  with  freedom's  caus<>, 
And  handed  scathless  down  from  sire  to  sire — 
Nor  yet,  our  grand  religion,  arid  our  Christ, 
Undecked  by  upstart  creeds  and  vulgar  charms, 
(Though  these  had  sure  sufficed 
To  urge  the  feeblest  Sybarite  to  arms)— 
But  more  than  all,  because  embracing  all, 
Insuring  all,  SELF-GOVERNMENT,  the  boon 
Our  patriot  statesmen  strove  to  win  and  keep, 
From  prescient  Pinckney  and  the  wise  Calhoun 

To  him,  that  gallant  Knight, 
The  youngest  champion  in  the  Senate  hall, 
Who,  led  and  guarded  by  a  luminous  fate, 
His  armor,  Courage,  and  his  war-horse,  Right, 
Dared  through  the  lists  of  eloquence  to  sweep 
Against  the  proud  Bois  Guilbert  of  debate  !* 


*  Everybody  must  remember  the  famous  tournament  scene  in 
"  Ivanhoe."  Of  course  the  author,  in  drawing  a  comparison  between 
that  chivalric  battle  and  the  contest  upon  "  Foote's  Resolutions"  in 
the  great  Senatorial  debate  of  1832,  would  be  understood  as  not 
pushing  the  comparison  further  than  the  first  shock  of  arms  between 
Bois  Guilbert  and  his  youthful  opponent,  which  Scott  tells  us  was 
the  most  spirited  encounter  of  the  day.  Both  the  knights'  lances 
were  fairly  broken,  and  they  parted,  with  no  decisive  advantage  on 
either  side. 


MY  MOTHER-LAND. 

"  There's  not  a  tone  from  out  the  teeming  past, 

Uplifted  once  in  such  a  cause  as  ours, 

Which  does  not  smite  our  souls 

In  long  reverberating  thunder-rolls, 

From  the  far  mountain-steeps  of  ancient  story. 

Above  the  shouting,  furious  Persian  mass, 

Millions  arrayed  in  pomp  of  Orient  powers, 

Rings  the  wild  war-cry  of  Leoiiidas 

Pent  in  his  rugged  fortress  of  the  rock  ; 

And  o'er  the  murmurous  seas, 

Compact  of  hero-faith  and  patriot  bliss, 

(For  conquest  crowns  the  Athenian's  hope  at  last), 

Come  the  clear  accents  of  Miltiades, 

Mingled  with  cheers  that  drown  the  battle-shock 

Beside  the  wave-washed  strand  of  Salamis. 

11  Where'er  on  earth  the  self-devoted  heart 
Hath  been  by  worthy  deeds  exalted  thus, 
We  look  for  proud  exemplars  ;  yet  for  us 

It  is  enough  to  know 
Our  fathers  left  us  freemen  ;  let  us  show 
The  will  to  hold  our  lofty  heritage, 
The  patient  strength  to  act  our  fathers'  part — 
Brothers  on  history's  page, 
We  wait  to  write  our  autographs  in  gore, 
To  cast  the  morning  brightness  of  our  glory 

Beyond  our  day  and  hope, 
The  narrow  limit  of  one  age's  scope, 

On  Time's  remotest  shore  I 
6* 


122  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  Yea  !  though  our  children's  blood 
Rain  'round  us  in  a  crimson-swelling  flood, 
Why  panyc  or  falter? — that  red  tide  shall  bear 

TLr  Aik  that  holds  our  shrined  liberty, 

y.f.  j.cer,  and  yet  more  near 
Some  height  of  promise  o'er  the  ensanguined  sea. 

"  At  last,  the  conflict  done, 
The  fadeless  meed  of  final  victory  won — 
Behold  !  emerging  from  the  rifted  dark 
Athwart  a  shining  summit  high  in  heaven, 

That  delegated  Ark ! 

No  more  to  be  by  vengeful  tempests  driven, 
But  poised  upon  the  sacred  mount,  whereat 
The  congregated  nations  gladly  gaze, 
Struck  by  the  quiet  splendor  of  the  rays 
That  circle  Freedom's  blood-bought  Ararat !" 

Thus  spake  the  people's  wisdom  ;  unto  me 
Its  voice  hath  come,  a  passionate  augury  ! 
Methinks  the  very  aspect  of  the  world 
Changed  to  the  mystic  music  of  its  hope. 
For,  lo  !  about  the  deepening  heavenly  cope 
The  stormy  cloudland  banners  all  are  furled, 

And  softly  borne  above 
Are  brooding  pinions  of  invisible  love, 

Distilling  balm  of  rest  and  tender  thought 
From  fairy  realms,  by  fairy  witchery  wrought 


JOE  JOHNSTON.  123 

O'er  the  hushed  ocean  steal  celestial  gleams 

Divine  as  light  that  haunts  a  poet's  dreams  ; 

And  universal  nature,  wheresoever 
My  vision  strays — o'er  sky,  and  sea,  and  river — 

Sleeps,  like  a  happy  child, 

In  slumber  undefiled, 
A.  premonition  of  sublimer  days, 

When  war  arid  warlike  lays 

At  length  shall  cease, 

Before  a  grand  Apocalypse  of  Peace, 

Vouchsafed  in  mercy  to  all  human  kind — 

A  prelude  and  a  prophecy  combined  ! 


JOE   JOHNSTON. 

BY  JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 

ONCE  more  to  the  breach  for  the  land  of  the  West  ! 
And  a  leader  we  give  of  our  bravest  and  best, 

Of  his  State  and  his  army  the  pride  ; 
Hope  shines  like  the  plume  of  Navarre  on  his  crest, 

And  gleams  in  the  glaive  at  his  side. 

For  his  courage  is  keen,  and  his  honor  is  bright 
As  the  trusty  Toledo*  he  wears  to  the  fight, 

*  General  Johnston  carries  with  him  a  beautiful  blade,  recently 
presented  to  him,  bearing  the  mark  of  the  Royal  Manufactory  oi 
Toledo,  1862. 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


Newly  wrought  in  the  forges  of  Spain  ; 
And  this  weapon,  like  all  he  has  brandished  for  right, 
Will  never  be  dimmed  by  a  stain. 

He  leaves  the  loved  soil  of  Virginia  behind, 
Where  the  dust  of  his  fathers  is  fitly  enshrined, 

Where  lie  the  fresh  fields  of  his  fame  ; 
V\7here  the  murmurous  pines,  as  they  sway  in  the  wind, 

Seem  ever  to  whisper  his  name. 

The  Johnstons  have  always  borne  wings  on  their  spurs, 
And  their  motto  a  noble  distinction  confers  — 

"  Ever  ready  1"  for  friend  or  for  foe  — 
With  a  patriot's  fervor  the  sentiment  stirs 

The  large,  manly  heart  of  our  JOE. 

We  read  that  a  former  bold  chief  of  the  clan, 
Fell,  bravely  defending  the  West,  in  the  van, 

On  Shiloh's  illustrious  day  ; 
And  with  reason  we  reckon  our  Johnston's  the  man 

The  dark,  bloody  debt  to  repay. 

There  is  much  to  be  done  ;  if  not  glory  to  seek, 
There's  a  just  and  terrible  vengeance  to  wreak 

For  crimes  of  a  terrible  dye  ; 
While  the  plaint  of  the  helpless,  the  wail  of  the  weak, 

In  a  chorus  rise  up  to  the  sky. 


JOE  JOHNSTON.  125 

For  the  Wolf  of  the  North  we  once  drove  to  his  den, 
That  quailed  with  affright  'neath  the  stern  glance  of  men, 

With  his  pack  has  returned  to  the  spoil ; 
Then  come  from  the  mountain,  the  hamlet,  the  glen, 

And  drive  him  again  from  your  soil. 

Brave-born  Tennesseeans,  so  loyal,  so  true, 

Who  have  hunted  the  beast  in  your  highlands,  of  you 

Our  leader  had  never  a  doubt  ; 
You  will  troop  by  the  thousand  the  chase  to  renew, 

The  day  that  his  bugles  ring  out. 

But  ye  "  Hunters,"  so  famed,  "  of  Kentucky"  of  yore, 
Where  now  are  the  rifles  that  kept  from  your  door 

The  wolf  and  the  robber  as  well  ? 
Of  a  truth,  you  have  never  been  laggard  before 

To  deal  with  a  savage  so  fell. 

Has  the  love  you  once  bore  to  your  country  grown  cold  ? 
Has  the  fire  on  the  altar  died  out  ?  do  you  hold 

Your  lives  than  your  freedom  more  dear  ? 
Can  you  shamefully  barter  your  birthright  for  gold, 

Or  basely  take  counsel  of  fear  ? 

We  will  not  believe  it ;  Kentucky,  the  land 
Of  a  Clay,  will  not  tamely  submit  to  the  brand 
That  disgraces  the  dastard,  the  slave  ; 


126  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  hour  of  redemption  draws  nigh,  is  at  hand, 
Her  own  sons  her  own  honor  shall  save  ! 

Mighty  men  of  Missouri,  corne  forth  to  the  call, 
When  the  rush  of  your  rivers,  when  tempests  appal, 

And  the  torrents  their  sources  unseal ; 
And  this  be  the  watchword  of  one  and  of  all — 

"  Remember  the  butcher,  McNeil  !" 

Then  once  more  to  the  breach  for  the  land  of  the  West  ; 
Strike  home  for  your  hearths — for  the  lips  you  love  best  ; 

Follow  on  where  your  leader  you  see  ; 
One  flush  of  his  sword,  when  the  foe  is  hard  pressed, 

And  the  land  of  the  West  shall  be  free  ! 


OYER    THE    RIVER. 

BY   JANE    T.    H.    CROSS. 
PUBLISHED    IX   THE   HASHVILLE   CHRISTIAN   ADVOCATE,    1861. 

WE  hail  your  "  stripes"  and  lessened  "  stars," 

As  one  may  hail  a  neighbor  ; 
Now  forward  move  !  no  fear  of  jars, 

With  nothing  but  free  labor  ; 
And  we  will  mind  our  slaves  and  farm, 
And  never  wish  you  any  harm, 

But  greet  you — over  the  river. 


OVKli    THE  RIVER.  127 

The  self-same  language  do  we  speak, 

The  same  dear  words  we  utter  ; 
Then  let's  not  make  each  other  weak, 

Nor  'gainst  each  other  mutter  ; 
But  let  each  go  his  separate  way, 
And  each  will  doff  his  hat,  and  say  : 

"  I  greet  you — over  the  river  !" 

Our  flags,  almost  the  same,  unfurl, 

And  nod  across  the  border  ; 
Ohio's  waves  between  them  curl — 

Our  stripe's  a  little  broader  ; 
May  yours  float  out  on  every  breeze, 
Arid,  in  our  wake,  traverse  all  seas — 

We  greet  you — over  the  river  ! 

We  part,  as  friends  of  years  should  part, 

With  pleasant  words  and  wishes, 
And  no  desire  is  in  our  heart 

For  Lincoln's  loaves  and  fishes  ; 
"  Farewell,"  we  wave  you  from  afar, 
We  like  you  best — just  where  you  are — 

And  greet  you — over  the  river  ! 


128  }VAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

THE    CONFEDERACY. 

BY    JANE    T.    H.    CROSS. 
PUBLISHED   IN   THE   SOUTHERN    CHRISTIAN   ADVOCATE,    1864. 

BORN  in  a  day,  full-grown,  our  Nation  stood, 
The  pearly  light  of  heaven  was  on  her  face  ; 

Life's  early  joy  was  coursing  in  her  blood  ; 
A  thing  she  was  of  beauty  and  of  grace. 

She  stood,  a  stranger  on  the  great  broad  earth, 
No  voice  of  sympathy  was  heard  to  greet 

The  glory-beaming  morning  of  her  birth, 
Or  hail  the  coming  of  the  unsoiled  feet. 

She  stood,  derided  by  her  passing  foes  ; 

Her  heart  beat  calmly  'neath  their  look  of  scorn  ; 
Their  rage  in  blackening  billows  round  her  rose — 

Her  brow,  meanwhile,  as  radiant  as  the  morn. 

Their  poisonous  coils  about  her  limbs  are  cast, 
She  shakes  them  off  in  pure  and  holy  ire, 

As  quietly  as  Paul,  in  ages  past, 
Shook  off  the  serpent  in  the  crackling  fire. 

She  bends  not  to  her  foes,  nor  to  the  world, 
She  bears  a  heart  for  glory,  or  for  gloom  ; 


THE  CONFEDERACY.  129 

But  with  her  starry  cross,  her  flag  unfurled, 
She  kneels  amid  the  sweet  magnolia  bloom. 

She  kneels  to  Thee,  0  God,  she  claims  her  birth, 
She  lifts  to  Thee  her  young  and  trusting  eye, 

She  asks  of  Thee  her  place  upon  the  earth — 
For  it  is  Thine  to  give  or  to  deny. 


Oh,  let  Thine  eye  but  recognize  her  right  1 
Oh,  let  Thy  voice  but  justify  her  claim  ! 

Like  grasshoppers  are  nations  in  Thy  sight, 
And  all  their  power  is  but  an  empty  name. 

Then  listen,  Father,  listen  to  her  prayer  ! 

Her  robes  are  dripping  with  her  children's  blood  ; 
Her  foes  around  "  like  bulls  of  Bashan  stare," 

They  fain  would  sweep  her  off,  "  as  with  a  flood." 

The  anguish  wraps  her  close  around,  like  death, 
Her  children  lie  in  heaps  about  her  slain  ; 

Before  the  world  she  bravely  holds  her  breath, 
Nor  gives  one  utterance  to  a  note  of  pain. 

But  'tis  not  like  Thee  to  forget  the  oppressed, 
Thou  feePst  within  her  heart  the  stifled  moan— 

Thou  Christ !  Thou  Lamb  of  God  !  oh,  give  her  rest ! 
For  Thou  hast  called  her  ! — is  she  not  Thine  own  ? 


130  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

PRESIDENT   DAYIS. 

BY"    JANE   T.    H.    CROSS. 
PUBLISHED   IK  THE   NEW   YORK   NEWS,    1865. 

THE  cell  is  lonely,  and  the  night 

Has  filled  it  with  a  darker  gloom  ; 
The  little  rays  of  friendly  light, 

Which  through  each  crack  and  chink  found  room 
To  press  in  with  their  noiseless  feet, 
All  merciful  and  fleet, 
And  bring,  like  Noah's  trembling  dove, 
God's  silent  messages  of  love — 
These,  too,  are  gone, 
Shut  out,  and  gone, 
And  that  great  heart  is  left  alone. 

Alone,  with  darkness  and  with  woe, 
Around  him  Freedom's  temple  lies, 
Its  arches  crushed,  its  columns  low, 

The  night-wind  through  its  ruin  sighs  ; 
Rash,  cruel  hands  that  temple  razed, 
Then  stood  the  world  amazed  ! 
And  now  those  hands — ah,  ruthless  deeds  ! 
Their  captive  pierce — his  brave  heart  bleeds  ; 

And  yet  no  groan 

Is  heard,  no  groan  ! 
He  suffers  silently,  alone. 


PRESIDENT  DA  VIS. 

For  all  his  bright  and  happy  home, 

He  has  that  cell,  so  drear  and  dark, 
The  narrow  walls,  for  heaven's  blue  dome, 

The  clank  of  chains,  for  song  of  lark  ; 
And  for  the  grateful  voice  of  friends — 
That  voice  which  ever  lends 

Its  charm  where  human  hearts  are  found 

He  hears  the  key's  dull,  grating  sound  ; 

No  heart  is  near, 

No  kind  heart  near, 
No  sigh  of  sympathy,  no  tear  ! 

Oh,  dream  not  thus,  thou  true  and  good  \ 
Unnumbered  hearts  on  thee  await, 

By  thee  invisibly  have  stood, 

Have  crowded  through  thy  prison-gate  ; 

Nor  dungeon  bolts,  nor  dungeon  bars, 

Nor  floating  "  stripes  and  stars," 

Nor  glittering  gun  or  bayonet, 

Can  ever  cause  us  to  forget 
Our  fait'h  to  thee, 
Our  love  to  thee, 

Thou  glorious  soul  !  thou  strong  !  thou  free  ! 


131 


132  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


THE   RIFLEMAN'S   "FANCY   SHOT." 

"RIFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot, 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette  ; 
Ring  me  a  ball  on  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet." 


"  Ah,  captain  !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead  ; 

There's  music  around  when  my  barrel's  in  tune." 
Crack  I  went  the  rifle  ;  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"  Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and  snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first  blood 

A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud." 

"  Oh,  captain  !  I  staggered,  and  sank  in  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  fallen  vidette  ; 

For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet. 

"  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket— this  locket  of  gold  ; 

An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 
Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 

Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 


11  ALL   QUIET  ALONG   THE  POTOMAC   TO-NIGHT."      133 

"  Ha  !  rifleman  !  fling  me  the  locket — 'tis  she  ! 

My  brother's  young  bride  ;  and  the  fallen  dragoon 
Was  her  husband.     Hush,  soldier  ! — 'twas  heaven's  deci 

We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 


"  But  hark  !  the  far  bugles  their  warning  unite  ; 

War  is  a  virtue,  and  weakness  a  sin  j 
There's  a  lurking  and  lopping  around  us  to-night : 

Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in  I" 


"ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE   POTOMAC  TO-NIGHT." 


BY    LAMAK    FONTAINE. 


[The  claim  to  the  authorship  of  this  poem,  which  Fontaine  alleges,  has 
been  disputed  in  behalf  of  a  lady  of  New  York,  but  she  herself  continues 
silent  on  the  subject.] 


quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night  !" 
Except  here  and  there  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 
By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 


'Tis  nothing  !  a  private  or  two  now  and  then 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  a  battle  : 


134  WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Not  an  officer  lost !  only  one  of  the  men 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle. 


All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night  ! 

Where  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming  ; 
And  their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

And  the  light  of  their  camp-fires  are  gleaming. 


A  tremulous  sigh,  as  a  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  slowly  is  creeping  ; 

While  the  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard  o'er  the  army  while  sleeping. 


There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  on  the  low  trundle  bed, 
Far  away,  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 


His  musket  falls  slack,  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 
Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 

As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 
And  their  mother — "  may  heaven  defend  her  !" 


The  moon  seems  to  shine  forth  as  brightly  as  then- 
That  night,  when  the  love,  yet  unspoken, 


ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC  TO-NIGHT 


Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  and  when  low-murmured  vows 
Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 


Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 
He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling  ; 

And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  his  breast, 
As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart's  swelling. 


He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, 
And  his  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary  ; 

Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 
Towards  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 


Hark  !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves 
Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 

It  looked  like  a  rifle  :  "  Ha  !  Mary,  good-by  !" 
And  his  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  splashing. 


"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night !" 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river  ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  the  picket's  off  duty  forever  1 


WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


ADDRESS 

DELIVERED   AT   THK    OPENING   OF   THE   NEW   THKATKE   AT   RICHMOND. 
A  PRIZE  POEM. BY  HENRY  TIMROD. 

A  FAIRY  ring- 
Drawn  in  the  crimson  of  a  battle-plain — 
From  whose  weird  circle  every  loathsome  thing 

And  sight  and  sound  of  pain 
Are  banished,  while  about  it  in  the  air, 
And  from  the  ground,  and  from  the  low-hung  skicn, 

Throng,  in  a  vision  fail- 
As  ever  lit  a  prophet's  dying  eyes, 

Gleams  of  that  unseen  world 
That  lies  about  us,  rainbow-tinted  shapes 

With  starry  wings  unfurled, 
Poised  for  a  moment  on  such  airy  capes 

As  pierce  the  golden  foam 

Of  sunset's  silent  main  — 
Would  image  what  in  this  enchanted  dome, 

Amid  the  night  of  war  and  death 
In  which  the  armed  city  draws  its  breath, 

We  have  built  up  ! 
For  though  no  wizard  wand  or  magic  cup 

The  spell  hath  wrought, 
Within  this  charmed  fane  we  ope  the  gates 

Of  that  divinest  fairy-land 

Where,  under  loftier  fates 


ADDRESS.  137 

Than  rule  the  vulgar  earth  on  which  we  stand, 
Move  the  bright  creatures  of  the  realm  of  thought. 


Shut  for  one  happy  evening  from  the  flood 
That  roars  around  us,  here  you  may  behold — 

As  if  a  desert  way 

Could  blossom  and  unfold 

A  garden  fresh  with  May — 
Substantialized  in  breathing  flesh  and  blood, 

Souls  that  upon  the  poet's  page 

Have  lived  from  age  to  age, 
And  yet  have  never  donned  this  mortal  clay. 

A  golden  strand 
Shall  sometimes  spread  before  you  like  the  islo 

Where  fair  Miranda's  smile 
Met  the  sweet  stranger  whom  the  father's  art 

Had  led  unto  her  heart, 
Which,  like  a  bud  that  waited  for  the  light, 

Burst  into  bloom  at  sight  ! 
Love  shall  grow  softer  in  each  maiden's  eyes 
As  Juliet  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 

Arid  prattles  to  the  night. 

Anon,  a  reverend  form 

With  tattered  robe  and  forehead  bare, 
That  challenge  all  the  torments  of  the  air, 

Goes  by  ! 

And  the  pent  feelings  choke  in  one  long  sigh, 
While,  as  the  mimic  thunder  rolls,  you  hear 


138  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  noble  wreck  of  Lear 
Reproach  like  things  of  life  the  ancient  skies, 

And  commune  with  the  storm  ! 
Lo  !  next  a  dim  and  silent  chamber,  where 
Wrapt  in  glad  dreams,  in  which,  perchance,  the  Moor 

Tells  his  strange  story  o'er, 
The  gentle  Desdemona  chastely  lies, 
Unconscious  of  the  loving  murderer  nigh. 

Then  through  a  hush  like  death 

Stalks  Denmark's  mailed  ghost ! 
And  Hamlet  enters  with  that  thoughtful  breath 
Which  is  the  trumpet  to  a  countless  host 
Of  reasons,  but  which  wakes  no  deed  from  sleep ; 

For  while  it  calls  to  strife, 
He  pauses  on  the  very  brink  of  fact 
To  toy  as  with  the  shadow  of  an  act, 
And  utter  those  wise  saws  that  cut  so  deep 

Into  the  core  of  life  ! 


Nor  shall  be  wanting  many  a  scene 

Where  forms  of  more  familiar  mien, 
Moving  through  lowlier  pathways,  shall  present 

The  world  of  every  day, 
Such  as  it  whirls  along  the  busy  quay, 
Or  sits  beneath  a  rustic  orchard  wall, 
Or  floats  about  a  fashion-freighted  hall, 
Or  toils  in  attics  dark  the  night  away. 
Love,  hate,  grief,  joy,  gain,  glory,  shame,  shall  meet, 


ADDRESS.  13J) 

As  in  the  round  wherein  our  lives  are  pent ; 

Chance  for  a  while  shall  seem  to  reign, 
While  goodness  roves  like  guilt  about  the  street, 

And  guilt  looks  innocent. 
But  all  at  last  shall  vindicate  the  right. 
Crime  shall  be  meted  with  its  proper  pain, 
Motes  shall  be  taken  from  the  doubter's  sight, 
And  fortune's  general  justice  rendered  plain. 
Of  honest  laughter  there  shall  be  no  dearth, 
Wit  shall  shake  hands  with  humor  grave  and  sweet, 
Our  wisdom  shall  not  be  too  wise  for  mirth, 
Nor  kindred  follies  want  a  fool  to  greet. 
As  sometimes  from  the  meanest  spot  of  earth 
A  sudden  beauty  unexpected  starts, 
So  you  shall  find  some  germs  of  hidden  worth 

Within  the  vilest  hearts  ; 

And  now  and  then,  when  in  those  moods  that  turn 
To  the  cold  Muse  that  whips  a  fault  with  sneers, 
You  shall,  perchance,  be  strangely  touched  to  learn 

You've  struck  a  spring  of  tears  ! 


But  while  we  lead  you  thus  from  change  to  change, 
Shall  we  not  find  within  our  ample  range 
Some  type  to  elevate  a  people's  heart — 
Some  haro  who  shall  teach  a  hero's  part 

In  this  distracted  time  ? 
Eise  from  thy  sleep  of  ages,  noble  Tell  ! 
And,  with  the  Alpine  thunders  of  thy  voice, 


140  WAR  POETRY  Of   THE  SOUTH. 

As  if  across  the  billows  unenthralled, 
Thy  Alps  unto  the  Alleghanies  called, 

Bid  liberty  rejoice  ! 

Proclaim  upon  this  trans-Atlantic  strand 
The  deeds  which,  more  than  their  own  awful  mien, 
Make  every  crag  of  Switzerland  sublime  ! 
And  say  to  those  whose  feeble  souls  would  lean 
Not  on  themselves,  but  on  some  outstretched  hand, 
That  once  a  single  mind  sufficed  to  quell 
The  malice  of  a  tyrant ;  let  them  know 
That  each  may  crowd  in  every  well-aimed  blow, 
Not  the  poor  strength  alone  of  arm  and  brand, 
But  the  whole  spirit  of  a  mighty  land  ! 

Bid  liberty  rejoice  !     Aye,  though  its  day 
Be  far  or  near,  these  clouds  shall  yet  be  red 
With  the  large  promise  of  the  coming  ray. 
Meanwhile,  with  that  calm  courage  which  can  smile 
Amid  the  terrors  of  the  wildest  fray, 
Let  us  among  the  charms  of  art  awhile 

Fleet  the  deep  gloom  away ; 
Nor  yet  forget  that  on  each  hand  and  head 
Rest  the  dear  rights  for  which  we  fight  and  pray. 


TEE  BATTLE  OF  RICHMOND.  ^\ 

THE  BATTLE  OF  RICHMOND. 

BY   GEORGE    HERBERT    SASS,    CHARLESTON,    S.  C. 

"For  they  gat  not  the  land  in  possession  by  their  own  sword;  neither 
was  it  their  own  arm  that  helped  them;  but  Thy  right  hand,  and  Thina 
•arm,  and  the  light  of  Thy  countenance,  because  Thou  hadst  a  favor  unto 
them."— Psalm  xliv.  3,  4. 


Now  blessed  be  the  Lord  of  Hosts  through  all  our  Southern 
land, 

And  blessed  be  His  holy  name,  in  whose  great  might  we 
stand  ; 

For  He  who  loves  the  voice  of  prayer  hath  heard  His 
people's  cry, 

And  with  His  own  almighty  arm  hath  won  the  victory  ! 

Oh,  tell  it  out  through  hearth  and  home,  from  blue  Poto 
mac's  wave 

To  those  far  waters  of  the  West  which  hide  De  Soto's 
grave. 

n. 

Now  let  there  be  through  all  the  land  one  grand  triumph 
ant  cry, 

Wherever  beats  a  Southern  heart,  or  glows  a  Southern 
sky  ; 

For  He  who  ruleth  every  fight  hath  been  with  us  to-day, 

And  the  great  God  of  battles  hath  led  the  glorious  fray ; 


14-2  WAS  POETfiY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Oh,  then  unto  His  holy  name  ring  out  the  joyful  song, 
The  race  hath  not  been  to  the   swift,  the  battle  to  the 
strong. 


in. 

From  royal  Hudson's  cliff-crowned  banks,  from  proud  Ohio's 

flood, 
From  that  dark  rock  in  Plymouth's  bay  where  erst    the 

pilgrims  stood, 
From  East  and  North,  from  far  and  near,  went  forth  the 

gathering  cry, 
And  the  countless  hordes   came  swarming  on  with  fierce 

and  lustful  eye. 

In  the  great  name  of  Liberty  each  thirsty  sword  is  drawn ; 
In  the  great  name  of  Liberty  each  tyrant  presseth  on. 

IV. 

Alas,  alas  !  her  sacred  name  is  all  dishonored  now, 

And  blood-stained  hands  are  tearing  off  each  laurel  from 

her  brow  ; 

But  ever  yet  rings  out  the  cry,  in  loud  and  mocking  tone, 
Still  in  her  holy  shrine  they  strive  to  rear  a  despot's  throne  ; 
And  pressing  on  with  eager  tread,  they  sweep  across  the 

land, 
To  burn  and   havoc   and   destroy — a   fierce   and   ruthless 

band. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  RICHMOND.  14.3 

V. 

I  looked  on  fair  Potomac's  shore,  and  at  my  feet  the  while 
The  sparkling  waves  leaped  gayly  up  to  meet  glad  summer's 

smile ; 
And  pennons  gay  were  floating  there,  and  banners  fair  to 

sec, 

A  mighty  host  arrayed,  I  ween,  in  war's  proud  panoply ; 
And  as  I  gazed  a  cry  arose,  a  low,  deep-swelling  hum, 
And  loud  and  stern  along  the  line  broke  in  the  sullen  drum. 

VI. 

Onward,  o'er  fair  Virginia's  fields,  through  ranks  of  nodding 

grain, 
With  shout  and  song  they  sweep  along,  a  gay  and  gallant 

train. 
Oh,  ne'er,  I  ween,  had  those  broad  plains  beheld  a  fairer 

sight, 
And  clear  and  glad  those  skies  of  June  shed  forth  their 

glorious  light. 

Onwards,  yea,  ever  onwards,  that  mighty  host  hath  passed, 
And  "  On  to  Richmond !"  is  the  cry  which  echoes  on  the 

blast. 


VII. 

I  looked  again,  the  rising  sun  shines  down  upon  the  moors, 
And  'neath  his  beams  rise  ramparts  high  and  frowning  em 
brasures, 


144  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  on  each  proud  abattis  yawn,  with  menace  stern  and 

dread, 
Grim-visaged  messengers  of  death  :  the  watchful  sentry's 

tread 
In   measured  cadence   slowly  falls  ;    all  Nature   seems   at 

ease, 
And  over  all  the  Stars  and  Stripes  are  floating  in  the  breeze. 

VIII. 

But  far  away  another  line  is  stretching  dark  and  long, 
Another  flag  is  floating  free  where  armed  legions  tlirong ; 
Another  war-cry's  on  the  air,  as  wakes  the  martial  drum, 
And  onward  still,  in  serried  ranks,  the  Southern  soldiers 

come, 

And  up  to  that  abattis  high  the  charging-  columns  tread, 
And  bold  and  free  the  Stars  and  Bars  are  waving  at  their 

head. 


IX. 


They  are  on  it !  they  are  o'er  it !  who  can  stay  that  living- 
flood? 

Lo,  ever  swelling,  rolleth  on  the  weltering  tide  of  blood. 

Yet  another  and  another  is  full  boldly  stormed  and  won, 

And  forward  to  the    spoiler's  camp  the  column  presseth  on. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  field  is  won  !  we've  met  them  man  to 
man, 

And  ever  still  the  Stars  and  Bars  are  riding  in  the  van. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  RICHMOND. 


X. 

They  are  flying !  they  are  flying  !  and  close  upon  their  track 
Comes  our  glorious  "Stonewall"  Jackson,  with  ten  thou 
sand  at  his  back  ; 
And  Lohgstreet,  too,  and   gallant  Hill,   and   Rhodes,   and 

brave  Huger,* 

And  he  whose  name  is  worth  a  host,  our  bold,  devoted  Lee ; 
And  back  to  where  the  lordly  James  his  scornful  billow  rolls, 
The  recreant  foe  is  fleeing  fast — those  men  of  dastard  souls. 

XI. 

They  are  flying  !  they  are  flying  !  horse  and  foot,  and  bold 

dragoon, 
In  one  refluent  mass  are  mingled,  'neath  the  slowly  waning 

moon  ; 

And  louder  still  the  cry  is  heard,  as  borne  upon  the  blast, 
The  shouts  of  the  pursuing  host  are  rising  full  and  fast : 
"On,  on  unto  the  river,  'tis  oar  only  chance  for  life  ! 
We  needs  must  reach  the  gunboats,  or  we  perish  in  the 

strife  !" 

XII. 

'Tis  done  !  the  gory  field  is  ours  ;  we've  conquered  in  the 

fight! 
And  yet  once  more  our  tongues  can  tell  the  triumph  of  the 

right ; 

*  Pronounced  Eujse. 


146  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And   humbled  is  the   haughty  foe,  who   our   destruction 

sought, 
For  God's  right  hand  and  holy  arm  have  great  deliverance 

wrought. 

Oli,  then,  unto  His  holy  name  ring  out  the  joyful  song — 
The  race  has  not  been  to  the  swift,  the  battle  to  the  strong. 


THE   GUERRILLAS:    A   SOUTHERN   WAR-SONG. 

BY  S.  TEACKLE  WALLIS,  OF  MARYLAND. 

"AWAKE!  and  to  horse,  my  brothers! 

For  the  dawn  is  glimmering  gray  ; 
And  hark!  in  the  crackling  brushwood 

There  are  feet  that  tread  this  way. 

"  Who  cometh  ?  "     "A  friend."     «  What  tidings  ?  " 

"  O  God !  I  sicken  to  tell, 
For  the  earth  seems  earth  no  longer, 

And  its  sights  are  sights  of  hell ! 

"  There's  rapine  and  fire  and  slaughter, 
From  the  mountain  down  to  the  shore ; 

There's  blood  on  the  trampled  harvest — 
There's  blood  on  the  homestead  floor. 

"  From  the  far-off  conquered  cities 

Comes  the  voice  cf  a  stifled  wail ; 
And  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  the  houseless 

Ring  out,  like  a  dirge,  on  the  gale. 


THE  GUERRILLAS:  A  SOUTHERN  WAR-SONG.   147 

"  I've  seen,  from  the  smoking  village, 

Our  mothers  and  daughters  fly ; 
I've  seen  where  the  little  children 

Sank  down,  in  the  furrows,  to  die. 

"  On  the  banks  of  the  battle-stained  river 

I  stood,  as  the  moonlight  shone, 
And  it  glared  on  the  face  of  my  brother, 

As  the  sad  wave  swept  him  on. 

"  Where  my  home  was  glad,  are  ashes, 
And  horror  and  shame  had  been  there — 

For  I  found,  on  the  fallen  lintel, 
This  tress  of  my  wife's  torn  hair. 

"  They  are  turning  the  slave  upon  us, 
And,  with  more  than  the  fiend's  worst  art, 

Have  uncovered  the  fires  of  the  savage 
That  slept  in  his  untaught  heart. 

"The  ties  to  our  hearths  that  bound  him, 
They  have  rent,  with  curses,  away, 

And  maddened  him,  with  their  madness, 
To  be  almost  as  brutal  as  they. 

"  With  halter  and  torch  and  Bible, 
And  hymns  to  the  sound  of  the  drum, 

They  preach  the  gospel  of  Murder, 
And  pray  for  Lust's  kingdom  to  come. 


148  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  To  saddle !  to  saddle !  my  brothers  ! 

Look  up  to  the  rising  sun, 
And  ask  of  the  God  who  shines  there, 

Whether  deeds  like  these  shall  be  done ! 

"Wherever  the  vandal  cometh, 

Press  home  to  his  heart  with  your  steel, 

And  when  at  his  bosom  you  cannot, 
Like  the  serpent,  go  strike  at  his  heel ! 

"Through  thicket  and  wood  go  hunt  him, 
Creep  up  to  his  camp  fireside, 

And  let  ten  of  his  corpses  blacken 
Where  one  of  our  brothers  hath  died. 

"In  his  fainting,  foot-sore  marches, 
In  his  flight  from  the  stricken  fray, 

In  the  snare  of  the  lonely  ambush, 
The  debts  that  we  owe  him  pay. 

"In  God's  hand,  alone,  is  judgment; 

But  He  strikes  with  the  hands  of  men, 
And  His  blight  would  wither  our  manhood 

If  we  smote  not  the  smiter  again. 

"  By  the  graves  where  our  fathers  slumber, 
By  the  shrines  where  our  mothers  prayed, 

By  our  homes  and  hopes  and  freedom, 
Let  every  man  swear  on  his  blade,— 


A    FAREWELL   TO  POPE.  149 

"  That  he  will  not  sheath  nor  stay  it, 

Till  from  point  to  heft  it  glow 
With  the  flush  of  Almighty  vengeance, 

In  the  blood  of  the  felon  foe." 

They  swore — and  the  answering  sunlight 

Leapt  red  from  their  lifted  swords, 
And  the  hate  in  their  hearts  made  echo 

To  the  wrath  in  their  burning  words. 

There's  weeping  in  all  New  England, 

And  by  SchuylkilPs  banks  a  knell, 
And  the  widows  there,  and  the  orphans, 

How  the  oath  was  kept  can  tell. 


A   FAREWELL   TO   POPE. 

BY  JOHN   R.    THOMPSON,    OF    VIRGINIA. 

"HATS  off"  in  the  crowd,  "  Present  arms"  in  the  line ! 
Let  the  standards  all  bow,  and  the  sabres  incline — 
Roll,  drums,  the  Rogue's  March,  while  the  conqueror  goes, 
Whose  eyes  have  seen  only  "  the  backs  of  his  foes" — 
Through  a  thicket  of  laurel,  a  whirlwind  of  cheers, 
His  vanishing  form  from  our  gaze  disappears ; 
Henceforth  with  the  savage  Dacotahs  to  cope, 
Abiit)  evasit,  erupit — John  Pope. 


150  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

He  came  out  of  the  West,  like  the  young  Lochiiivar, 

Compeller  of  fate  and  controller  of  war, 

Videre  et  vincere,  simply  to  see, 

And  straightway  to  conquer  Hill,  Jackson  and  Lee  , 

And  old  Abe  at  the  White  House,  like  Kilrnansegg  per?., 

With  a  monkeyish  grin  and  beatified  air, 

"  Seemed  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap," 

As  with  eager  attention  he  listened  to  Pope. 

He  came — and  the  poultry  was  swept  by  his  sword, 

Spoons,  liquors,  and  furniture  went  by  the  board  ; 

He  saw — at  a  distance,  the  rebels  appear, 

And  "  rode  to  the  front,"  which  was  strangely  the  rear  ; 

He  conquered — truth,  decency,  honor  full  soon, 

Pest,  pilferer,  puppy,  pretender,  poltroon  ; 

And  was  fain  from  the  scene  of  his  triumphs  to  slope. 

Sure  there  never  was  fortunate  hero  like  Pope. 

He  has  left  us  his  shining  example  to  note, 
And  Stuart  has  captured  his  uniform  coat  ; 
But  'tis  puzzling  enough,  as  his  deeds  we  recall, 
To  tell  on  whose  shoulders  his  mantle  should  fall  ; 
While  many  may  claim  to  deserve  it,  at  least, 
From  Hunter,  the  Hound,  down  to  Butler,  the  Beast, 
None  else,  we  can  say,  without  risking  the  trope, 
But  himself  can  be  parallel  ever  to  Pope. 

Like  his  namesake  the  poet  of  genius  and  fire, 
He  gives  new  expression  and  force  to  the  lyre; 


SONNET.  151 

But  in  one  little  matter  they  differ,  the  two, 
And  differ,  indeed,  very  widely,  'tis  true- 
While  his  verses  gave  great  Alexaader  his  fame, 
'Tis  our  hero's  reverses  accomplish  the  same  ; 
And  fate  may  decree  that  the  end  of  a  rope 
Shall  award  yet  his  highest  position  to  Pope. 


SONNET. 

ON   READING   A    PROCLAMATION   FOR   PUBLIC    PRAYER. 

SOUTH    CAROLINIAN. 

OH  !  terrible,  this  prayer  in  the  market-place, 
These  advertised  humilities — decreed 
By  proclamation,  that  we  may  be  freed, 

And  mercy  find  for  once,  and  saving  grace, 

Even  while  we  forfeit  all  that  made  the  race 
Worthy  of  Heavenly  favor — and  profess 
Our  faith  and  homage  only  through  duress, 

And  dread  of  danger  which  we  dare  not  face. 

All  working  that's  done  worthily  is  prayer — 

And  honest  thought  is  prayer — the  wish,  the  will 
To  mend  our  wnys,  maintain  our  virtues  still, 

And,  losing  life,  still  keep  our  bosoms  fair 

In  sight  of  God — with  whom  humility 

And  patient  working  can  alone  make  free. 


152  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

BATTLE   OF   BELMONT. 

BY   J.    AUGUSTINE    SIGNAIGO. 

FROM   THE   MEMPHIS   APPEAL,  DEC.  21,  1861. 

I. 

Now  glory  to  our  Southern  cause,  and  praises  be  to  God, 
That  He  hath  met  the  Southron's  foe,  and  scourged  him  with 

his  rod  : 
On  the  tented  plains  of  Belmont,  in  their  might  the  Vandals 

came, 
And  they  gave  unto  destruction  all  they  found,  with  sword 

and  flame  ; 

But  they  met  a  stout  resistance  from  a  little  band  that  day, 
Who  swore  nobly  they  would  conquer,  or  return  to  mother 

clay. 

n. 

But  the  Vandals  with  presumption — for  they  came   in   all 

their  might — 
Gave  free  vent  unto  their  feelings,  for  they  thought  to  win 

the  fight ; 

And  they  forced  our  little  cohorts  to  the  very  river's  brink, 
With  a  breath  between  destruction  and  of  life's  remaining 

link: 
When  the  cannon  of   McCown,  belching  fire  from  out  its 

mouth, 
Brought  destruction  to  the  Vandals  and  protection  to  the 

South. 


BATTLE  OF  B  ELMO  NT.  153 

III. 

There  was  Pillow,  Polk  and  Cheatliam,  who  had  sworn  that 

day  on  high 
That  field  should  see  them  conquer,  or  that  field  should  see 

them  die  ; 

And  amid  the  groan  of  dying  and  amid  the  battle's  din, 
Came  the  echo  back  from  heaven,  that  they  should  that 

battle  win  : 

And  arnid  the  boom  of  cannons,  and  amid  the  clash  of  swords, 
Came  destruction  to  the  focmari — and  the  vengeance  was 

the  Lord's  ! 

i\r. 

When  the  fight  was  raging  hottest,   came  the   wild   and 

cheering  cry, 
That  brought  terror  to  the  foeman,  and  that  raised  our  spirits 

high ! 
It  was  "Cheatham!"  "Cheatham!"  "  Chcatham  !"  that  the 

Vandals'  ears  did  sting, 

And  our  boys  caught  up  the  echo  till  it  made  the  welkin  ring  ; 
And  the  moment  that  the  Hessians  thought  the  fight  was 

surely  won, 
From  the  crackling  of  our  rifles — bravely  then  they  had  to 

run  ! 

v. 

Then  they  ran  unto  their  transports  in  deep  terror  and  dismay, 
And  their  great  grandchildren's  children  will  be  shamed  to 
name  that  day  ; 


1 5  i  WAR  P OETR T  OF  THE  SO UTH. 

For  the  woe  they  came  to  bring  to  the  people  of  the  South 
Was  returned  tenfold  to  them  at   the   cannon's  booming 

mouth  : 

And  the  proud  old  Mississippi  ran  that  day  a  horrid  flood, 
For  its  banks  were   deeply  crimsoned  with   the   hireling 

Northman's  blood. 

VI. 

Let  us  think  of  those  who  fell  there,  fighting  foremost  with 

the  foe, 

And  who  nobly  struck  for  Freedom,  dealing  Tyranny  a  blow  : 
Like  the  ocean  beating  wildly  'gainst  a  prow  of  adamant, 
Or  the  storm  that  keeps  on  bursting,  but  cannot  destroy  the 

plant ; 
Brave  Lieutenant  Walker,   wounded,  still   fought  on   the 

bloody  field, 
Cheering  on  his  noble  comrades,  ne'er  unto  the  foe  to  yield  ! 


VII. 

None  e'er  knew  him  but  to  love  him,  the  brave  martyr  to 

his  clime — 

Now  his  name  belongs  to  Freedom,  to  the  very  end  of  Time  : 
And  the  last  words  that  he  uttered  will  forgotten  be  by  few: 
"  I  have  bravely  fought  them,  mother — I  have  bravely 

fought  for  you  !" 

Let  his  memory  be  green  in  the  hearts  who  love  the  South, 
And  his  noble  deeds  the  theme  that  shall  dwell  in  every 

mouth. 


BATTLE  OF  BELMONT,  }55 

VIII. 

In  the  hottest  of  the  battle  stood  a  Vandal  bunting  rag, 
Proudly  to  the  breeze  'twas  floating  in  defiance  to  our  flag  ; 
And  our  Southern  boys  knew  well  that,  to  bring  that  bunting 

down, 
They  would  meet  the  angel  death  in  his  sternest,  maddest 

frown  ; 
But  it  could  not  gallant  Armstrong,  dauntless  Vollmer,  or 

brave  Lynch, 
Though  ten  thousand  deaths  confronted,  from  the  task  of 

honor  flinch  I 

IX. 

And  they  charged  upon  that  bunting,  guarded  by  grim- 

visaged  Death, 

Who  had  withered  all  around  it  with  the  blister  of  his  breath; 
But  they  plucked  it  from  his  grasp,  and  brave  Vollrner 

waved  it  high, 
On  the  gory  field  of  battle,  where  the  three  were  doomed 

to  die  ; 

But  before  their  spirits  fled  came  the  death-shout  of  the  three, 
Cheering  for  the  sunny  South  and  beloved  old  Tennessee  ! 


Let  the  horrors  of  this  day  to  the  foe  a  warning  be, 
That  the  Lord  is  with  the  South,  that  His  arm  is  with  the  free; 
That  her  soil  is  pure  and  spotless,  as  her  clear  and  sunny  sky. 
And  that  he  who  dare  pollute  it  on  her  soil  shall  basely  die  ; 


156  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

For  His  fiat  hath  gone  forth,  e'en  among  the  Hessian  horde, 
That  the  South  has  got  His  blessing,  for  the  South  is  of  the 
Lord. 

XI. 

Then  glory  to  our  Southern  cause,  and  praises  give  to  God 
That  He  hath  met  the  Southron's  foe  and  scourged  him  with 

His  rod  ; 
That  He  hath  been  upon  our  side,  with  all  His  strength  and 

might, 

And  battled  for  the  Southern  cause  in  every  bloody  fight  ; 
Let  us,  in  meek  humility,  to  all  the  world  proclaim, 
We  bless  and  glorify  the  Lord,  and  battle  in  His  name. 


VICKSBURG— A   BALLAD. 

BY    PAUL    H.    HAYNE. 


FOR  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  'round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not  ! 
"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

Be  the  ramparts  of  the  dead  ! 


VIGKSBURG—A  BALLAD, 

II. 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim, 
And  even  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian's  prayer  and  hymn, 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  of  air 
Strove  to  ingulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 


in. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

'Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts  ; 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 


ir. 

And  the  little  children  gambolled — 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

AR  tho  huge  bomb  whirled  and  blitzed 


158          WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH, 

Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 
To  the  sports  which  children  love, 

Thrice  mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought, 
That  the  good  God  watched  above. 


v. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster, 
From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 

And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 
Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 

Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 
Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 

Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 
Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 


VI. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

Those  death-shafts  turned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide  ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  trode  with  the  step  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 
COLUMBIA,  S.  C.,  August  6,  1862. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  WAR. 
A  BALLAD  OF  THE  WAR. 

PUBLISHED    ORIGINALLY   IN   THE   SOUTHERN   FIELD    AND    FIRESIDE. 
BY  GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS,  OF  CHARLESTON,   S.  C. 

WATCHMAN,  what  of  the  night  1 

Through  the  city's  darkening  street, 
Silent  and  slow,  the  guardsmen  go 

On  their  long  and  lonely  beat. 

Darkly,  drearily  down, 

Falleth  the  wintry  rain  ; 
And  the  cold,  gray  mist  hath  the  roof-tops  kissed, 

As  it  glides  o'er  town  and  plain. 

Beating  against  the  windows, 

The  sleet  falls  heavy  and  chill, 
And  the  children  draw  nigher  'round  hearth  and  fire, 

As  the  blast  shrieks  loud  and  shrill. 

Silent  is  all  without, 

Save  the  sentry's  challenge  grim, 
And  a  hush  sinks  down  o'er  the  weary  town, 

And  the  sleeper's  eyes  are  dim. 

Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ? 
Hark  !  from  the  old  church-tower 


160  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Rings  loud  and  clear,  on  the  misty  air, 
The  chime  of  the  midnight  hour. 

But  another  sound  breaks  in, 

A  summons  deep  and  rude, 
The  roll  of  the  drum,  and  the  rush  and  hum 

Of  a  gathering  multitude. 

And  the  dim  and  flickering  torch 

Sheds  a  red  and  lurid  glare, 
O'er  the  long  dark  line,  whose  bayonets  shine 

Faintly,  yet  sternly  there. 

A  low,  deep  voice  is  heard  : 
"  Rest  on  your  arms,  my  men." 
Then  the  muskets  clank  through  each  serried  rank. 
And  all  is  still  again. 

Pale  faces  and  tearful  eyes 

Gaze  down  on  that  grim  array, 
For  a  rumor  hath  spread  that  that  column  dread 

Marcheth  ere  break  of  day. 

Marcheth  against  "  the  rebels," 

Whose  camp  lies  heavy  and  still, 
Where  the  driving  sleet  and  the  cold  rain  beat 

On  the  brow  of  a  distant  hill. 


A  BALLAD   OF  THE   WAR. 

And  the  mother's  heart  grows  faint, 
As  she  thinks  of  her  darling  one, 

Who  perchance  may  lie  'neath  that  wintry  sky, 
Ere  the  long,  dark  night  be  done. 

Pallid  and  haggard,  too, 

Is  the  cheek  of  the  fair  young  wife  ; 
And  her  eye  grows  dim  as  she  thinks  of  him 

She  loveth  more  than  life. 

For  fathers,  husbands,  sons, 

Are  the  "  rebels"  the  foe  would  smite, 
And  earnest  the  prayer  for  those  lives  so  dear, 

And  a  bleeding  country's  right. 

And  where  their  treasure  is, 

There  is  each  loving  heart ; 
And  sadly  they  gaze  by  the  torches'  blaze, 

And  the  tears  unbidden  start. 

Is  there  none  to  warn  the  camp, 

None  from  that  anxious  throng  ? 
Ah,  the  rain  beats  down  o'er  plain  and  town — 

The  way  is  dark  and  long. 

No  man  is  left  behind, 

None  that  is  brave  and  true, 

8 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


And  the  bayonets,  bright  in  the  lurid  light 
With  menace  stern  shine  through. 

Guarded  is  every  street, 

Brutal  the  hireling  foe  ; 
Is  there  one  heart  here  will  boldly  dare 

So  brave  a  deed  to  do  ? 


Look  !  in  her  still,  dark  room, 

Alone  a  woman  kneels, 
With  Care's  deep  trace  on  her  pale,  worn  face, 

Arid  Sorrow's  ruthless  seals. 

Wrinkling  her  placid  brow, 

A  matron,  she,  and  fair, 
Though  wan  her  cheek,  and  the  silver  streak 

Gemming  her  glossy  hair. 

A  moment  in  silent  prayer 

Her  pale  lips  move,  and  then, 
Through  the  dreary  night,  like  an  angel  bright, 

On  her  mission  of  love  to  men. 

She  glideth  upon  her  way, 

Through  the  lonely,  misty  street, 
Shrinking  with  dread  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  the  watchman  on  his  beat. 


A  BALLAD   OF  THE  WAR.  ]$ 

Onward,  aye,  onward  still, 

Far  past  the  weary  town, 
Till  languor  doth  seize  on  her  feeble  knees, 

And  the  heavy  hands  hang  down. 

But  bravely  she  struggles  on, 

Breasting  the  cold,  dank  rain, 
And,  heavy  and  chill,  the  mist  from  the  hill 

Sweeps  down  upon  the  plain. 

Hark  !  far  behind  she  hears 

A  dull  and  muffled  tramp, 
But  before  her  the  gleam  of  the  watch-fire's  beam 

Shines  out  from  the  Southern  camp. 

She  hears  the  sentry's  challenge, 

Her  work  of  love  is  done  ; 
She  has  fought  a  good  fight,  and  on  Fame  s  proud  height 

Hath  a  crown  of  glory  won. 

Oh,  they  tell  of  a  Tyrol  maiden, 

Who  saved  from  a  ruthless  foe 
Her  own  fair  town,  'mid  its  mountains  brown, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

And  I've  read  in  tales  heroic 
How  a  noble  Scottish  maid 


1(54  WA2i   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Her  own  life  gave,  her  king  to  save 
From  the  foul  assassin's  blade. 

But  if  these,  on  the  rolls  of  honor, 

Shall  live  in  lasting  fame, 
Oh,  close  beside,  in  grateful  pride, 

We'll  write  this  matron's  name. 

And  when  our  fair-haired  children 

Shall  cluster  round  our  knee, 
With  wondering  gaze,  as  we  tell  of  the  days 

When  we  swore  that  we  would  be  free, 

We'll  tell  them  the  thrilling  story, 
And  we'll  say  to  each  childish  heart, 

"  By  this  gallant  deed,  at  thy  country's  need, 
Be  ready  to  do  thy  part,'' 


THE   TWO    ARMIES. 

BY    HENRY    TIMROD. 

Two  armies  stand  enrolled  beneath 

The  banner  with  the  starry  wreath  : 

One,  facing  battle,  blight,  and  blast, 

Through  twice  a  hundred  fields  has  passed  ; 

Its  deeds  against  a  ruffian  foe, 

Stream,  valley,  hill,  and  mountain  know, 


THE  TWO  ARMIES. 

Till  every  wind  that  sweeps  the  land 
Goes,  glory-laden,  from  the  strand. 

The  other,  with  a  narrower  scope, 
Yet  led  by  not  less  grand  a  hope, 
Hath  won,  perhaps,  as  proud  a  place, 
And  wears  its  fame  with  meeker  grace. 
Wives  march  beneath  its  glittering  sign, 
Fond  mothers  swell  the  lovely  line  : 
And  many  a  sweetheart  hides  her  blush 
In  the  young  patriot's  generous  flush. 

No  breeze  of  battle  ever  fanned 
The  colors  of  that  tender  band  ; 
Its  office  is  beside  the  bed, 
Where  throbs  some  sick  or  wounded  head. 
It  does  not  court  the  soldier's  tomb, 
But  plies  the  needle  and  the  loom  ; 
And,  by  a  thousand  peaceful  deeds, 
Supplies  a  struggling  nation's  needs. 

Nor  is  that  army's  gentle  might 
Urifelt  amid  the  deadly  fight  ; 
It  nerves  the  son's,  the  husband's  hand, 
It  points  the  lover's  fearless  brand  ; 
It  thrills  the  languid,  warms  the  cold, 
Gives  even  new  courage  to  the  bold  ; 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  sometimes  lifts  the  veriest  clod 
To  its  own  lofty  trust  in  God. 

When  Heaven  shall  blow  the  trump  of  peace, 

And  bid  this  weary  warfare  cease, 

Their  several  missions  nobly  done, 

The  triumph  grasped,  and  freedom  won, 

Both  armies,  from  their  toils  at  rest, 

Alike  may  claim  the  victor's  crest, 

But  each  shall  see  its  dearest  prize 

Gleam  softly  from  the  other's  eyes. 


THE   LEGION   OF  HONOR. 

BY    H.    L.    FLASH. 

WHY  are  we  forever  speaking 
Of  the  warriors  of  old  ? 

Men  are  fighting  all  around  us, 
Full  as  noble,  full  as  bold. 


Ever  working,  ever  striving, 

Mind  and  muscle,  heart  and  soul, 

With  the  reins  of  judgment  keeping 
Passions  under  full  control. 


THE  LEGION  OF  HONOR. 

Noble  hearts  are  beating  boldly 

As  they  ever  did  on  earth  ; 
Swordless  heroes  are  around  us, 

Striving  ever  from  their  birth. 

Tearing  down  the  old  abuses, 

Building  up  the  purer  laws, 
Scattering  the  dust  of  ages, 

Searching  out  the  hidden  flaws. 

Acknowledging  no  "right  divine" 
In  kings  and  princes  from  the  rest ; 

In  their  creed  he  is  the  noblest 
Who  has  worked  and  striven  best. 

Decorations  do  not  tempt  them — 
Diamond  stars  they  laugh  to  scorn— 

Each  will  wear  a  "  Cross  of  Honor" 
On  the  Resurrection  morn. 

Warriors  they  in  fields  of  wisdom—. 

Like  the  noble  Hebrew  youth, 
Striking  down  Goliath's  error 

With  the  God-blessed  stone  of  truth. 

Marshalled  'neath  the  Right's  broad  banner, 
Forward  rush  these  volunteers, 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Beating  olden  wrong  away 

From  the  fast  advancing  years. 


Contemporaries  do  not  see  them, 
But  the  coming  times  will  say 

(Speaking  of  the  slandered  present), 
"  There  were  heroes  in  that  day." 

Why  are  we  then  idly  lying 

On  the  roses  of  our  life, 
While  the  noble-hearted  struggle 

In  the  world-redeeming  strife. 


Let  us  rise  and  join  the  legion. 
Ever  foremost  in  the  fray — 

Battling  in  the  name  of  Progress 
For  the  nobler,  purer  day. 


CLOUDS    IN    THE  WEST. 

BY    A.    J.    REQUIER,  OF  ALABAMA. 

HARK  !  on  the  wind  that  whistles  from  the  West 
A  manly  shout  for  instant  succor  comes, 

From  men  who  fight,  outnumbered,  breast  to  breast, 
With  rage-indented  drums  1 


CLOUDS  IN  THE    WEST. 


Who  dare  for  child,  wife,  country — stream  and  strand, 
Though  but  a  fraction  to  the  swarming  foe, 

There — at  the  flooded  gateways  of  the  land, 
To  stem  a  torrent's  flow. 

To  arms  !  brave  sons  of  each  embattled  State, 
Whose  queenly  standard  is  a  Southern  star : 

Who  would  be  free  must  ride  the  lists  of  Fate 
On  Freedom's  victor-car  ! 

Forsake  the  field,  the  shop,  the  mart,  the  hum 
Of  craven  traffic  for  the  mustering  clan  : 

The  dead  themselves  are  pledged  that  you  shall  corno 
And  prove  yourself — a  man. 

That  sacred  turf  where  first  a  thrilling  grief 

Was  felt  which  taught  you  Heaven  alone  disposes— 

God !  can  you  live  to  see  a  foreign  thief 
Contaminate  its  roses  ? 

Blow,  summoning  trumpets,  a  compulsive  stave 
Through  all  the  bounds,  from  Beersheba  to  Dan  ; 

Come  out !  come  out !  who  scorns  to  be  a  slave, 
Or  claims  to  be  a  man  ! 

Hark  1  on  the  breezes  whistling  from  the  West 
A  manly  shout  for  instant  succor  comes, 

8* 


170  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

From  men  who  fight,  outnumbered,  breast  to  breast, 
With  rage-indented  drums  ! 

Who  charge  and  cheer  amid  the  murderous  din, 
Where  still  your  battle-flags  unbended  wave, 

Dying  for  what  your  fathers  died  to  win 
And  you  must  fight  to  save. 

Ho  I  shrilly  fifes  that  stir  the  vales  from  sleep, 
Ho  !  brazen  thunders  from  the  mountains  hoar  ; 

The  very  waves  are  marshalling  on  the  deep, 
While  tempests  tread  the  shore. 

Arise  and  swear,  your  palm-engirdled  land 
Shall  burial  only  yield  a  bandit  foe  ; 

Then  spring  upon  the  caitiffs,  steel  in  hand, 
And  strike  the  fated  blow. 


GEORGIA,   MY  GEORGIA! 

BY    CARRIE    BELL    SINCLAIR. 

HARK  !  'tis  the  cannon's  deafening  roar, 
That  sounds  along  thy  sunny  shore, 
Arid  thou  shalt  lie  in  chains  no  more, 

My  wounded,  bleeding  Georgia  ! 
Then  arm  each  youth  and  patriot  sire, 
Light  up  the  patriotic  fire, 


GEORGIA,  MY  GEORGIA. 

And  bid  the  zeal  of  those  ne'er  tire, 

Who  strike  for  thee,  my  Georgia  ! 

On  thee  is  laid  oppression's  hand, 
Around  thy  altars  foemen  stand, 
To  scatter  freedom's  gallant  band, 

And  lay  thee  low,  my  Georgia  ! 
But  thou  hast  noble  sons,  and  brave, 
The  Stars  and  Bars  above  thee  wave, 
And  here  we'll  make  oppression's  grave, 

Upon  the  soil  of  Georgia  ! 

We  bow  at  Liberty's  fair  shrine, 
And  kneel  in  holy  love  at  thine, 
And  while  above  our  stars  still  shine, 

We'll  strike  for  them  and  Georgia  ! 
Thy  woods  with  victory  shall  resound, 
Thy  brow  shall  be  with  laurels  crowned, 
And  peace  shall  spread  her  wings  around 

My  own,  my  sunny  Georgia  ! 

Yes,  these  shall  teach  thy  foes  to  feel 
That  Southern  hearts,  and  Southern  steel, 
Will  make  them  in  submission  kneel 

Before  the  sons  of  Georgia  I 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  daughters,  too, 
With  pride  and  patriotism  true, 


172  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Arise  with  strength  to  dare  and  do, 

Ere  they  shall  conquer  Georgia  j 

Thy  name  shall  be  a  name  of  pride — 
Thy  heroes  all  have  nobly  died, 
That  thou  mayst  be  the  spotless  bride 

Of  Liberty,  rny  Georgia  ! 
Then  wave  thy  sword  and  banner  high, 
And  louder  raise  the  battle-cry, 
'Till  shouts  of  victory  reach  the  sky, 

And  thou  art  free,  my  Georgia  ! 


SONG    OF   THE   TEXAS   RANGERS. 
AIR— The  Yellow  Rose  of  Texas. 

THE  morning  star  is  paling, 

The  camp-fires  flicker  low, 
Our  steeds  are  madly  neighing, 

For  the  bugle  bids  us  go. 
So  put  the  foot  in  stirrup, 

And  shake  the  bridle  free, 
For  to-day  the  Texas  Rangers 

Must  cross  the  Tennessee. 

With  Wharton  for  our  leader, 
We'll  chase  the  dastard  foe, 

Till  our  horses  bathe  their  fetlocks 
In  the  deep  blue  Ohio. 


SONG   OF  THE  TEXAS  RANGERS. 

Our  men  are  from  tiic  prairies, 

That  roll  broad  and  proud  and  free, 
From  the  high  and  craggy  mountains 

To  the  murmuring  Mexic'  sea  ; 
And  their  hearts  are  open  as  their  plains, 

Their  thoughts  as  proudly  brave 
As  the  bold  cliffs  of  the  San  Bernard, 

Or  the  Gulf's  resistless  wave. 

Then  quick  !  into  the  saddle, 
And  shake  the  bridle  free, 

To-day,  with  gallant  Wharton, 
We  cross  the  Tennessee. 


'Tis  joy  to  be  a  Ranger  ! 

To  fight  for  dear  Southland  ; 
Tis  joy  to  follow  Wharton, 

With  his  gallant,  trusty  band  ! 
'Tis  joy  to  see  our  Harrison, 

Plunge  like  a  meteor  bright 
Into  the  thickest  of  the  fray, 

And  deal  his  deathly  might. 

Oh  !  who'd  not  be  a  Ranger, 
And  follow  Wharton's  cry  ! 

To  battle  for  his  country — 
And,  if  it  needs  be— die  ! 


174  N'^1   POETRY  OF  THE  SOU  TIL 

By  the  Colorado's  waters, 

On  the  Gulf's  deep  murmuring  shore, 
On  our  soft  green  peaceful  prairies 

Are  the  homes  we  may  see  no  more  ; 
But  in  those  homes  our  gentle  wives, 

And  mothers  with  silv'ry  hairs, 
Are  loving  us  with  tender  hearts, 

And  shielding  us  with  prayers. 

So,  trusting  in  our  country's  God, 
We  draw  our  stout,  good  brand, 

For  those  we  love  at  home, 
Our  altars  and  our  land. 


Up,  up  with  the  crimson  battle-flag — 

Let  the  blue  pennon  fly  ; 
Our  steeds  are  stamping  proudly — 

They  hear  the  battle-cry  ! 
The  thundering  bomb,  the  bugle's  call, 

Proclaim  the  foe  is  near  ; 
We  strike  for  God  and  native  land, 

And  all  we  hold  most  dear. 

Then  spring  into  the  saddle, 

And  shake  the  bridle  free — 
For  Wharton  leads,  through  fire  and  blood, 

For  Home  and  Victory  ! 


KENTUCKY  REQUIRED   TO   YIELD  HER  ARM*.        175 
KENTUCKY  REQUIRED  TO  YIELD  HER  ARMS. 

BY  BOONE. 

Ho  !  will  the  despot  trifle, 

In  dwellings  of  the  free  ; 
Kentuckians  yield  the  rifle, 

Kentuckians  bend  the  knee  ! 
With  dastard  fear  of  danger, 

And  trembling  at  the  strife  ; 
Kentucky,  to  the  stranger, 

Yield  liberty  for  life  ! 
Up  !   up  !  each  gallant  ranger, 

With  rifle  and  with  knife  ! 

The  bastard  and  the  traitor, 

The  wolfcub  and  the  snake, 
The  robber,  swindler,  hater, 

Are  in  your  homes — awake  ! 
Nor  let  the  cunning  foeman 

Despoil  your  liberty; 
Yield  weapon  up  to  no  man, 

While  ye  can  strike  and  see, 
Awake,  each  gallant  yeoman, 

If  still  ye  would  be  free  ! 

Aye,  see  to  sight  the  rifle, 

And  smite  with  spear  and  knife, 


176  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH, 

Let  no  base  cunning  stifle 

Each  lesson  of  your  life  : 
How  won  your  gallant  sires 

The  country  which  ye  keep  ? 
By  soul,  which  still  inspires 

The  soil  on  which  ye  weep  ! 
Leap  up  !  their  spirit  fires, 

And  rouse  ye  from  your  sleep  ! 

"  What !"  cry  the  sires  so  famous, 

In  Orleans'  ancient  field, 
"  Will  ye,  our  children,  shame  us, 

And  to  the  despot  yield  ? 
What !  each  brave  lesson  stifle 

We  left  to  give  you  life  ? 
Let  apish  despots  trifle 

With  home  and  child  and  wife  ? 
And  yield,  0  shame  !  the  rifle, 

And  sheathe,  0  shame  !  the  knife  ? 


"THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET." 

FIRST   PUBLISHED    IN   THE    NEW   ORLEANS   DELTA,  ABOUT   SEPTEMBER   1,  180], 

BY  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash 

The  tyrant's  war-shout  comes, 
Along  with  the  cymbal's  fitful  clash 

And  the  growl  of  his  sullen  drums  ; 


"THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND   YET. 


We  hear  it,  we  heed  it,  with  vengeful  thrills, 

And  we  shall  not  forgive  or  forget — 
There's  faith  in  the  streams,  there's  hope  in  the  hills, 

"  There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  !" 

Minions  !  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead, 

We  are  crushed,  we  are  scourged,  we  are  scarred — 
We  crouch — 'tis  to  welcome  the  triumph-tread 

Of  the  peerless  Beauregard. 
Then  woe  to  your  vile,  polluting  horde, 

When  the  Southern  braves  are  met ; 
There's  faith  in  the  victor's  stainless  sword, 

"There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  \» 

Bigots  !  ye  quell  not  the  valiant  mind 

With  the  clank  of  an  iron  chain  ; 
The  spirit  of  Freedom  sings  in  the  wind 

O'er  Merryman,  Thomas,  and  Kane  ; 
And  we — though  we  smite  not — are  not  thralls, 

We  are  piling  a  gory  debt  ; 
While  down  by  McHeriry's  dungeon  walls 

"  There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  !" 

Our  women  have  hung  their  harps  away 

And  they  scowl  on  your  brutal  bands, 
While  the  nimble  poignard  dares  the  day 

In  their  dear  defiant  hands  ; 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

They  will  strip  their  tresses  to  string  our  bows 

Ere  the  Northern  sun  is  set — 
There's  faith  in  their  unrelenting  woes — 

"  There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  !" 

There's  life,  though  it  throbbeth  in  silent  veins, 

'Tis  vocal  without  noise  ; 
It  gushed  o'er  Manassas'  solemn  plains 

From  the  blood  of  the  Maryland  boys. 
That  blood  shall  cry  aloud  and  rise 

With  an  everlasting  threat — 
By  the  death  of  the  brave,  by  the  God  in  the  skies, 

"  There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet !" 


TELL  THE  BOYS  THE  WAR  IS  ENDED. 

BY    EMILY    J.  MOORE. 

While  in  the  first  ward  of  the  Quintard  Hospital,  Eome,  Georgia,  a  young 
soldier  from  the  Eighth  Arkansas  Regiment,  who  had  been  wounded  at 
Murfreesboro',  called  me  to  his  bedside.  As  I  approached  I  saw  that  he 
was  dying,  and  when  I  bent  over  him  he  was  just  able  to  whisper,  "  Tell  the 
boys  the  war  is  ended." 

"  TELL  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

These  were  all  the  words  he  said  ; 
"  Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

In  an  instant  more  was  dead. 


TELL   THE  BOYS  THE   WAR  IS  ENDED.  179 

Strangely  bright,  serene,  and  cheerful 

Was  the  smile  upon  his  face, 
While  the  pain,  of  late  so  fearful, 

Had  not  left  the  slightest  trace. 


"  Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

And  with  heavenly  visions  bright 
Thoughts  of  comrades  loved  were  blended, 

As  his  spirit  took  its  flight. 
"  Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 
"  Grant,  0  God,  it  may  be  so," 
Was  the  prayer  which  then  ascended, 
In  a  whisper  deep,  though  low. 


"  Tell  the  boys  the  war  is  ended," 

And  his  warfare  then  was  o'er, 
As,  by  angel  bands  attended, 

He  departed  from  earth's  shore. 
Bursting  shells  and  cannons  roaring 

Could  not  rouse  him  by  their  din  ; 
He  to  better  worlds  was  soaring, 

Far  f^m  war,  and  pain,  and  sin. 


180  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS." 

BY    ST.  GEORGE    TUCKER,  OF   VIRGINIA. 

OH  !  say  can  you  see,  through  the  gloom  and  the  storm, 
More  bright  for  the  darkness,  that  pure  constellation? 
Like  the  symbol  of  love  and  redemption  its  form, 
As  it  points  to  the  haven  of  hope  for  the  nation. 
How  radiant  each  star,  as  the  beacon  afar, 
Giving  promise  of  peace,  or  assurance  in  war  ! 
'Tis  the  Cross  of  the  South,  which  shall  ever  remain 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 

How  peaceful  and  blest  was  America's  soil, 
'Till  betrayed  by  the  guile  of  the  Puritan  demon, 
Which  lurks  under  virtue,  and  springs  from  its  coil 
To  fasten  its  fangs  in  the  life-blood  of  freemen. 
Then  boldly  appeal  to  each  heart  that  can  feel, 
And  crush  the  foul  viper  'neath  Liberty's  heel  ! 
And  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  in  triumph  remain, 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 

'Tis  the  emblem  of  peace,  'tis  the  day-star  of  hope, 
Like  the  sacred  Labarum  that  guided  the  Roman  ; 
From  the  shores  of  the  Gulf  to  the  Delaware's  slope, 
'Tis  the  trust  of  the  free  and  the  terror  of  foemen. 
Fling  its  folds  to  the  air,  while  we  boldly  declare 
The  rights  we  demand  or  the  deeds  that  we  dare  ! 


ENGLAND^  NEUTRALITY. 


While  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  in  triumph  remain, 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 


And  if  peace  should  be  hopeless  and  justice  denied, 
And  war's  bloody  vulture  should  flap  its  black  pinions 
Then  gladly  "  to  arms,"  while  we  hurl,  in  our  pride, 
Defiance  to  tyrants  and  death  to  their  minions  ! 
With  our  front  in  the  field,  swearing  never  to  yield, 
Or  return,  like  the  Spartan,  in  death  on  our  shield  ! 
And  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  triumphantly  wave, 
As  the  Hag  of  the  free  or  the  pall  of  the  brave  ! 
SOUTHERN  LITERARY  MESSENGER. 


ENGLAND'S   NEUTRALITY. 

A   PARLIAMENTARY    DEBATE. 
BY   JOHN    R.    THOMPSON,  OF    RICHMOND,  VIRGINIA. 

ALL  ye  who  with  credulity  the  whispers  hear  of  fancy, 
Or  yet  pursue  with  eagerness  hope's  wild  extravagancy, 
Who  dream  that  England  soon  will  drop  her  long  miscalled 

neutrality, 
And  give  us,  with  a  hearty  shake,  the  hand  of  nationality, 

Read,  as  we  give,  with  little  fault  of  statement  or  omission, 
The  ne.rf  debate  in  parliament  on  Southern  Recognition  ; 


182  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

They're  all  so  much  alike,  indeed,  that  one  can  write  it  off 

I  see, 
As  truly  as  the  Timetf  report,  without  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

Not  yet,  not  yet  to  interfere  does  England  see  occasion, 
But  treats  our  good  commissioner  with  coolness  and  eva 
sion  ; 

Such  coolness  in  the  premises,  that  really  'tis  refrigerant 
To  think  that  two  long  years  ago  she  called  us  a  belli 
gerent. 

But,  further,  Downing-street  is  dumb,  the  premier  deaf  to 
reason, 

As  deaf  as  is  the  Morning  Post,  both  in  and  out  of  season  ; 

The  working  men  of  Lancashire  are  all  reduced  to  beg 
gary, 

And  yet  they  will  not  listen  unto  Roebuck  or  to  Gregory, 

"  Or  any  other  man,"  to-day,  who  counsels  interfering, 
While  all  who  speak  on  t'other  side  obtain  a  ready  hear 

ing— 

As,  par  exemple,  Mr.  Bright,  that  pink  of  all  propriety, 
That  meek  and  mild  disciple  of  the  blessed  Peace  Society. 

"  Why,  let  'em  fight,"  says  Mr.  Bright,  "  those  Southerners, 

I  hate  'em, 
And  hope  the  Black  Republicans  will  soon  exterminate  'em; 


KNG  LAND'S  NEUTRALITY. 


If  freedom  can't  rebellion  crush,  pray  tell  me  what's  the  use 

of  her  ?" 
And  so  he  chuckles  o'er  the  fray  as  gleefully  as  Lucifer. 


Enough   of  him — an  abler  man  demands  our  close  atten 
tion — 

The  Maximus  Apollo  of  strict  new-intervention — 
With  pitiless  severity,  though  decorous  and  calm  his  tone, 
Thus  spake  the  "  old  man  eloquent,'7  the  puissant  Earl  of 
Palmerston  : 


"  What  though  the  land  run  red  with  blood,  what  though 

the  lurid  flashes 

Of  cannon  light,  at  dead  of  night,  a  mournful  heap  of  ashes 
Where  many  an  ancient  mansion  stood — what  though  tho 

robber  pillages 
The  sacred  home,  the  house  of  God,  in  twice  a  hundred  vil- 


"  What  though  a  fiendish,  nameless  wrong,  that  makes  re 
venge  a  duty, 

Is  daily  done"  (0  Lord,  how  long  !)  "to  tenderness  and 
beauty  I" 

(And  who  shall  tell  this  deed  of  hell,  how  deadlier  far  a 
curse  it  is 

Than  even  pulling  temples  down  and  burning  universities)? 


184  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  Let  arts  decay,  let  millions  fall,  aye,  let  freedom  perish, 
With  all  that  in  the  western  world  men  fain  would  love 

and  cherish  ; 

Let  universal  ruin  there  become  a  sad  reality  : 
We  cannot  swerve,  we  must  preserve  our  rigorous  neu 
trality." 


Oh,  Pain  !    oh,  Pam  !   hast  ever  read  what's  writ  in  holy 

pages, 
How   blessed  the  peace-makers  are,  God's  children  of  the 

ages  ? 
Perhaps  you  think  the  promise  sweet  was  nothing  but  a 

platitude  ; 
'Tis  clear  that  you  have  no  concern  in  that  divine  beatitude. 


But  "hear!  hear!  hear  !"  anothei   peer,  that  mighty  man 

of  muscle, 
Is  on  his  legs,  what  slender  pegs  !    "  ye  noble  Ea.  1"  of 

Russell  ; 
Thus  might  he  speak,  did  not  of  speech  his  shrewd  reserve 

the  folly  see, 
And  thus  unfold  the  subtle  plan  of  England's  secret  policy. 


"John   Bright  was  right,   yes,   Jot  'em   fight,    these    fools 

across  the  water, 
'Tis  n<>  affair  at  all  of  ours,  their  carnival  of  slaughter  ; 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY-.  \  85 

The  Christian  world,  indeed,  may  say  we  ought  not  to  allow 
it,  sirs, 

But  still  'tis  music  in  our  ears,  this  roar  of  Yankee  how 
itzers. 

"  A  word  or  two  of  sympathy,  that  costs  us  not  a  penny, 
We  give  the  gallant  Southerners,  the  few  against  the  many  ; 
We  say  their  noble  fortitude  of  final  triumph  presages, 
And  praise,  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Jeff.  Davis  and  his 
messages. 

"  Of  course  we  claim  the  shining  fame  of  glorious  Stone 
wall  Jackson, 

Who  typifies  the  English  race,  a  sterling  Anglo-Saxon  ; 

To  bravest  song  his  deeds  belong,  to  Clio  and  Melpomene" — 

(And  why  not  for  a  British  stream  demand  the  Chicka- 
liominy  ?) 

"But  for  the  cause  in  which  he  fell  we  cannot  lift  a  finger, 
'Tis  idle  on  the  question  any  longer  here  to  linger  ; 
'Tis  true  the  South  has  freely  bled,  her  sorrows  are  Ho 
meric,  oh  ! 
Her  case  is  like  to  his  of  old  who  journeyed  unto  Jericho 

"The  thieves  have  stripped  and  bruised,  although  as  yet 

they  have  not  bound  her, 
We'd  like  to  see  her  slay 'em  all  to  right  and  left  around  her  ; 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


We  shouldn't  cry  in  parliament  if  Lee   should  cross  the 

Raritan, 
But  England  never  yet  was  known  to  play  the  Good  Sa 

maritan. 


"And  so  we  pass  the  other  side,  and  leave  them  to  their 
glory, 

To  give  new  proofs  of  manliness,  new  scenes  for  song  and 
story  ; 

These  honeyed  words  of  compliment  may  possibly  bam 
boozle  'em, 

But  ere  we  intervene,  you  know,  we'll  see  'em  in — Jeru 
salem. 


"  Yes,  let  'em  fight,  till  both  are  brought  to  hopeless  deso 
lation, 

Till  wolves  troop  round  the  cottage  door  in  one  and  t'other 
nation, 

Till,  worn  and  broken  down,  the  South  shall  prove  no  more 
refractory, 

And  rust  eats  up  the  silent  looms  of  every  Yankee  factory. 


"  Till  bursts  no  more  the  cotton  boll  o'er  fields  of  Carolina, 
And  fills  with  snowy  flosses  the  dusky  hands  of  Dinah  ; 
Till  war  has  dealt  its  final  blow,  and  Mr.  Seward's  knavery 
Has  put  an  end  in  all  the  land  to  freedom  and  to  slavery. 


KNG  LAND'S  NEUTRALITY.  187 

<l  The  grim  Bastile,  the  rack,  the  wheel,  without  remorse  or 

pity, 

May  flourish  with  the  guillotine  in  every  Yankee  city  ; 
No  matter  should  old  Abe  revive  the  brazen  bull  of  Phalaris, 
'Tis  no  concern  at  all  of  ours" — (sensation  in  the  galleries.) 

"  So  shall  our  '  merry  England'  thrive  on  trans-Atlantic 
troubles, 

While  India,  on  her  distant  plains,  her  crop  of  cotton 
doubles  ; 

And  just  so  long  as  North  or  South  shall  show  the  least 
vitality, 

We  cannot  swerve,  we  must  preserve  our  rigorous  neu 
trality." 

Your  speech,  my  lord,  might  well  become  a  Saxon  legislator, 
When  the  "  fine  old  English  gentleman"  lived  in  a  state  of 

natur', 
When    Vikings    quaffed    from    human    skulls    their    fiery 

draughts  of  honey  mead, 
Long,  long  before  the  barons  bold  met  tyrant  John  at  Run- 

nymede. 

But  'tis  a  speech  so  plain,  my  lord,  that  all  may  understand  it, 
And  so  we  quickly  turn  again  to  fight  the  Yankee  bandit, 
Convinced  that  we  shall  fairly  win  at  last  our  nationality, 
Without  the  help  of  Britain's  arm,  in  spite  of  her  neutrality. 
ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


188  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUT1L 


CLOSE  THE  RANKS. 

BY  JOHN  L.  O'SULLIVAN. 

THE  fell  invader  is  before  ! 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
We'll  hunt  his  legions  from  our  shore, 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
Our  wives,  our  children  are  behind, 
Our  mothers,  sisters,  dear  and  kind, 
Their  voices  reach  us  on  the  wind, 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 


Are  we  to  bend  to  slavish  yoke  ? 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
We'll  bend  when  bends  our  Southern  oak. 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
On  with  the  line  of  serried  steel, 
We  all  can  die,  we  none  can  kneel 
To  crouch  beneath  the  Northern  heel. 

Close  the  ranks  1  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 


We  kneel  to  God,  and  God  alone. 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
One  heart  in  all— all  hearts  as  one. 

Close  the  ranks  I  Close  up  the  ranks  I 


CLOSE  THE  RANKS.  139 

For  home,  for  country,  truth  and  right, 
We  stand  or  fall  in  freedom's  fight : 
In  such  a  cause  the  right  is  might. 
Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 


We're  here  from  every  southern  home. 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  I 
Fond,  weeping  voices  bade  us  corne. 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks 
The  husband,  brother,  boy,  and  sire, 
All  burning  with  one  holy  fire — 
Our  country's  love  our  only  hire. 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 

We  cannot  fail,  we  will  not  yield  ! 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
Our  bosoms  are  our  country's  shield. 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
By  Washington's  immortal  name, 
By  Stonewall  Jackson's  kindred  fame, 
Their  souls,  their  deeds,  their  cause  the  same. 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 

By  all  we  hope,  by  all  we  love, 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  I 

By  home  on  earth,  by  Heaven  above, 
Close  the  ranks  1  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 


190  WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

By  all  the  tears,  and  heart's  blood  shed, 
By  all  our  hosts  of  martyred  dead, 
We'll  conquer,  or  we'll  share  their  bed. 
Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 

The  front  may  fall,  the  rear  succeed, 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
We  smile  in  triumph  as  we  bleed, 

Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 
Our  Southern  Cross  above  us  waves, 
Long  shall  it  bless  the  sacred  graves 
Of  those  who  died,  but  were  not  slaves. 
Close  the  ranks  !  Close  up  the  ranks  ! 


THE    SEA-KINGS     OF   THE    SOUTH. 

BY    EDWARD    C.    BRUCE,    OF    WINCHESTER,    VA. 

FULL  many  have  sung  of  the  victories  our  warriors  have  won, 
From  Bethel,  by  the  eastern  tide,  to  sunny  Galveston, 
On  fair  Potomac's  classic  shore,  by  sweeping  Tennessee, 
Hill,  rock,  and  river  shall  tell  forever  the  vengeance  of  the 
free. 

The  air  still  rings  with  the  cannon-shot,  with  battle's  breath 

is  warm  ; 
Still  on  the  hills  their  swords  have  saved  our  legions  wheel 

and  form  ; 


THE  SEA-KINGS  OF  THE  SOUTU.  -\$\ 

And  Johnston.  Beaarogard,  and  Lee,  with  all  their  gallant 

train, 
Wait  yet  at  their  head,  in  silence  dread,  the  hour  to  charge 

again. 

But  a  ruggeder  field  than  the  mountain-side — a  broader  field 
than  the  plain, 

Is  spread  for  the  fight  in  the  stormy  wave  and  the  globe- 
embracing  main. 

'Tis  there  the  keel  of  the  goodly  ship  must  trace  the  fate  of 
the  land, 

For  the  name  ye  write  in  the  sea-foam  white  shall  first  and 
longest  stand. 

For  centuries  on  centuries,  since  first  the  hallowed  tree 
Was  launched  by  the  lone  mariner  on  some  primeval  sea, 
No  stouter  stuff  than  the  heart  of  oak,  or  tough  elastic  pine, 
Had  floated  beyond  the  shallow  shoal  to  pass  the  burning 
Line. 

The  Naiad  and  the  Dryad  met  in  billow  and  in  spar  ; 
The  forest  fought  at  Salamis,  the  grove  at  Trafalgar. 
Old  Tubalcain  had  sweated  amain  to  forge  the  brand  and 

ball  ; 
But  failed  to  frame  the  mighty  hull  that  held  enfortressed  all. 

Six  thousand  years  had  waited  for  our  gallant  tars  to  show 
That  iron  was  to  ride  the  wave  and  timber  sink  below. 


192  WA>R  POETRY  OP   THE  SOUTH. 

The  waters  bland  that  welcomed  first  the  white  man  to  our 

shore, 
Columbus,  of  an  iron  world,  tho  brave  Buchanan  bore. 


Not  gun  for  gun,  but  thirty  to  one,  the  odds  he  had  to  meet! 
Oiie  craft,  untried  of  wind  or  tide,  to  beard  a  haughty  fleet! 
Above  her  shattered  relics  now  the  billows  break  and  pour; 
But  the  glory  of  that  wondrous  day  shall  be  hers  for  ever 
more. 


See  yonder  speck  on  the  mist  afar,  as  dim  as  in  a  dream  ! 
Auear  it  speeds,  there  are  masts  like  reeds  and  a  tossing 

plume  of  steam  ! 
Fleet,   fierce,  and   gaunt,    with    bows    aslant,    she    dashes 

proudly  on, 
Whence  and  whither,  her  prey  to  gather,  the  foe  shall  learn 

anon. 


Oh,  broad  and  green  is  her  hunting-park,  and  plentiful  the 
game  ! 

Prom  the  restless  bay  of  old  Biscay  to  the  Carib'  sea  she 
came. 

The  catchers  of  the  whale  she  caught  ;  swift  Ariel  over 
hauled  ; 

And  made  Hatteras  know  the  hardest  blow  that  ever  a  tar 
appalled. 


THE  SEA-KINGS  OF  THE  SOUTH.  193 

She  bears  the  name  of  a  noble  State,  and  sooth  she  bears  it 

well. 
To  us  she  hath  made  it  a  word  of  pride,  to  the  Northern  ear 

a  knell. 

To  the  Puritan  in  the  busy  mart,  the  Puritan  on  his  deck, 
With  "  Alabama"  visions  start  of  ruin,  woe,  and  wreck. 

In  vain  his  lubberly  squadrons  round  her  magic  pathway 

swoop — 

Admiral,  captain,  commodore,  in  gunboat,  frigate,  sloop. 
Save  to  snatch  a  prize,  or  a  foe  chastise,  as  their  feeble  art 

she  foils, 
She  will  scorn  a  point  from  her  course  to  veer,  to  baffle  all 

their  toils. 

And  bravely  doth  her  sister-ship  begin  her  young  career. 
Already  hath  her  gentle  name  become  a  name  of  fear  ; 
The  name  that  breathes  of  the  orange-bloom,  of  soft  lagoons 

that  roll 
Round  the  home  of  the  Roman  of  the  West — the  uncon- 

quered  Seminole. 

Like  the  albatross  and  the  tropic-bird,  forever  on  the  wing, 
For  them    nor   night    nor   breaking    morn    may  peace    nor 

shelter  bring. 

All  drooping  from  the  weary  cruise  or  shattered  from  the  fight, 
No  dear  home-haven  opes  to  them  its  arms  with  welcome 

bright. 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


Then  side  by  side,  in  our  love  and  pride,  be  our  men  of  the 

land  and  sea  ; 
The  fewer  these,  the  sterner  task,  the  greater  their  guerdon 

be  ! 
The  fairest  wreaths  of   amaranth  the  fairest  hands    shall 

twine 
For  the  brows  of  our  preux  chevaliers,  the  Bayards  of  the 

brine  ! 


The  "  stars  and  bars"  of  our  sturdy  tars  as  gallantly  shall 

wave 
As  long  shall  live  in  the  storied  page,  or  the  spirit-stirring 

stave, 
As  hath  the  red  cross  of  St.  George  or  the  raven-flag  of 

Thor, 
Or  flag  of  the  sea,  whatever  it  be,  that  ever  unfurled  to  war. 


Then  flout  full  high  to  their  parent  sky  those  circled  stars 

of  ours, 
Where'er  the  dark-hulled  foeman  floats,  where'er  his  emblem 

towers  1 
Speak  for  the  right,  for  the  truth  and  light,  from  the  gun's 

unmuzzled  mouth, 

the  fame  of  the  Dane  revive  again,  ye  Vikings  of  the 

SOUTH  ! 

RICHMOND  SKNTINEL,  March  30,  1883. 


THE  RETURN.  195 


THE   RETURN. 

THREE  years  !  I  wonder  if  she'll  know  me  ? 

I  limp  a  little,  and  I  left  one  arm 
At  Petersburg  ;  and  I  am  grown  as  brown 

As  the  plump  chestnuts  on  my  little  farm  : 
And  Fm  as  shaggy  as  the  chestnut  burrs — 
But  ripe  and  sweet  within,  and  wholly  hers. 

The  darling  !  how  I  long  to  see  her  ! 

My  heart  outruns  this  feeble  soldier  pace, 
For  I  remember,  after  I  had  left, 

A  little  Charlie  came  to  take  my  place. 
Ah !  how  the  laughing,  three-year  old,  brown  eyes — 
His  mother's  eyes — will  stare  with  pleased  surprise  ! 

Surely,  they  will  be  at  the  corner  watching  ! 

I  sent  them  word  that  I  should  come  to-night  : 
The  birds  all  know  it,  for  they  crowd  around, 

Twittering  their  welcome  with  a  wild  delight ; 
Anu  that  old  robin,  with  a  halting  wing — 
I  saved  her  life,  three  years  ago  last  spring. 

Three  years  I  perhaps  I  am  but  dreaming  ! 

For,  like  the  pilgrim  of  the  long  ago, 
I've  tugged,  a  weary  burden  at  my  back, 

Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's  blinding  snow; 


19(3  WAli    I'OETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Till  now,  I  reach  my  borne,  my  darling's  breast, 

There  I  can  roll  rny  burden  off,  and  rest. 

#  *  *  *  * 

When  morning  came,  the  early  rising  sun 
Laid  his  light  fingers  on  a  soldier  sleeping — 

Where  a  soft  covering  of  bright  green  grass 
Over  two  mounds  was  lightly  creeping  ; 

But  waked  him  not :  his  was  the  rest  eternal, 

Where  the  brown  eyes  reflected  love  supernal. 


OUR   CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

BY   JOHN7    DICKSON    BRUXS,  M.  D.,  OF    CHARLESTON,   S.  C 

"  GOOD-WILL  and  peace  !  peace  and  good-will  I1' 

The  burden  of  the  Advent  song, 
What  time  the  love-charmed  waves  grew  still 

To  hearken  to  the  shining  throng  ; 
The  wondering  shepherds  heard  the  strain 

Who  watched  by  night  the  slumbering  fleece, 
The  deep  skies  echoed  the  refrain, 

"  Peace  and  good-will,  good- will  and  peace  !" 

And  wise  men  hailed  the  promised  sign, 

And  brought  their  birth-gifts  from  the  East, 

Dear  to  that  Mother  as  the  wine 
That  hallowed  Caua's  bridal  feast  ; 


OUR   CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

But  what  to  these  are  myrrh  or  gold, 
And  what  Arabia's  costliest  gem, 

Whose  eyes  the  Child  divine  behold, 
The  blessed  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 


"  Peace  and  good-will,  good- will  and  peace  !" 

They  sing,  the  bright  ones  overhead  ; 
And  scarce  the  jubilant  anthems  cease 

Ere  Judah  wails  her  first-born  dead  ; 
And  Rama's  wild,  despairing  cry 

Fills  with  great  dread  the  shuddering  coast, 
And  Rachel  hath  but  one  reply, 

"Bring  back,  bring  back  my  loved  and  lost." 


So,  down  two  thousand  years  of  doom 

That  cry  is  borne  on  wailing  winds, 
But  never  star  breaks  through  the  gloom, 

No  cradled  peace  the  watcher  finds  ; 
And  still  the  Herodian  steel  is  driven, 

And  breaking  hearts  make  ceaseless  rnoan, 
And  still  the  mute  appeal  to  heaven 

Man  answers  back  with  groan  for  groan. 

How  shall  we  keep  our  Christmas  tide? 

With  that  dread  past,  its  wounds  agape, 
Forever  walking  by  our  side, 

A  fearful  shade,  an  awful  shape  ; 


198  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Can  any  promise  of  the  spring 

Make  green  the  faded  autumn  leaf? 

Or  who  shall  say  that  time  will  bring 
Fair  fruit  to  him  who  sows  but 


Wild  bells  !  that  shake  the  midnight  air 

With  those  dear  tones  that  custom  loves, 
You  wake  no  sounds  of  laughter  here, 

Nor  mirth  in  all  our  silent  groves  ; 
On  one  broad  waste,  by  hill  or  flood, 

Of  ravaged  lands  your  music  falls, 
And  where  the  happy  homestead  stood 

The  stars  look  down  on  roofless  halls. 


At  every  board  a  vacant  chair 

Fills  with  quick  tears  some  tender  eye, 
And  at  our  maddest  sports  appear 

Those  well-loved  forms  that  will  not  die. 
We  lift  the  glass,  our  hand  is  stayed— 

We  jest,  a  spectre  rises  up — 
And  weeping,  though  no  word  is  said, 

We  kiss  and  pass  the  silent  cup, 


And  pledge  the  gallant  friend  who  keeps 
His  Christrnas-eve  on  Malvern's  height, 

And  him,  our  fair-haired  boy,  who  sleeps 
Beneath  Virginian  snows  to-night ; 


OUR   UHRIXTMAS  HYMX.  \\)<) 

While,  by  the  fire,  she,  musing,  broods 
On  all  that  was  and  might  have  been, 

If  Shiloh's  dank  and  oozing  woods 
Had  never  drunk  that  crimson  stain. 


0  happy  Yules  of  buried  years  ! 

Could  ye  but  come  in  wonted  guise. 
Sweet  as  love's  earliest  kiss  appears, 

When  looking  back  through  wistful  eyes, 
Would  seem  those  chimes  whose  voices  tell 

His  birth-night  with  melodious  burst, 
Who,  sitting  by  Samaria's  well, 

Quenched  the  lorn  widow's  life-long  thirst. 


Ah  !  yet  I  trust  that  all  who  weep, 

Somewhere,  at  last,  will  surely  find 
His  rest,  if  through  dark  ways  they  keep 

The  child-like  faith,  the  prayerful  mind  : 
And  some  far  Christinas  morn  shall  bring 

From  human  ills  a  sweet  release 
To  loving  hearts,  while  angels  sing 

"  Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace 


•200  WAR   POETRY    OF  THE  SOUTH. 

CHARLESTON. 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE   CHARLESTON   COURIEB   IN   1863. 
BY   MISS    E.  B.  CHEESBOROUGH. 

PROUDLY  she  stands  by  the  crystal  sea, 

With  the  fires  of  hate  around  her, 
But  a  cordon  of  love  as  strong  as  fate, 

AVith  adamant  links  surround  her. 
Let  them  hurl  their  bolts  through  the  azure  sky, 

And  death-bearing  missiles  send  her, 
She  finds  in  our  God  a  mighty  shield, 

And  in  heaven  a  sure  defender. 


Her  past  is  a  page  of  glory  bright, 

Her  present  a  blaze  of  splendor, 
You  may  turn  o'er  the  leaves  of  the  jewell'd  tome, 

You'll  not  find  the  word  surrender  ; 
For  sooner  than  lay  down  her  trusty  arms, 

She'd  build  her  own  funeral  pyre, 
And  the  flames  that  give  her  a  martyr's  fate 

Will  kindle  her  glory  higher. 


How  the  demons  glare  as  they  see  her  stand 

In  majestic  pride  serenely, 
And  gnash  with  the  impotent  rage  of  hate, 

Creeping  up  slowly,  meanly  ; 


GATHERING  SONG,  201 

While  she  cries,  "  Come  forth  from  your  covered  dens, 

All  your  hireling  legions  send  me, 
I'll  bare  my  breast  to  a  million  swords, 

Whilst  God  and  my  sons  defend  me." 

Oh,  brave  old  town,  o'er  thy  sacred  form 

AVhilst  the  fiery  rain  is  sweeping, 
May  He  whose  love  is  an  armor  strong 

Embrace  theo  in  tender  keeping  ; 
And  when  the  red  war-cloud  lias  rolled  away, 

Anoint  thee  with  hoty  chrism, 
And  sanctified,  chastened,  regenerate,  true, 

Thou  surviv'st  this  fierce  baptism. 


GATHERING  SONG. 

Are— Bonnie  Blue  Flag 
BY    ANNIE    CHAMBERS    KETCHUM. 

COME,  brothers  !  rally  for  the  right  ! 

The  bravest  of  the  brave 
Sends  forth  her  ringing  battle-cry 

Beside  the  Atlantic  wave  ! 
She  leads  the  way  in  honor's  path  ! 

Come,  brothers,  near  and  far, 
Come  rally  'round  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 
That  bears  a  single  star  ! 


202  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

We've  borne  the  Yankee  trickery, 

The  Yankee  gibe  and  sneer, 
Till  Yankee  insolence  and  pride 

Know  neither  shame  nor  fear  ; 
But  ready  now  with  shot  and  steel 

Their  brazen  front  to  mar, 
We  hoist  aloft  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star  I 


Now  Georgia  marches  to  the  front, 

And  close  beside  her  come 
Her  sisters  by  the  Mexique  Sea, 

With  pealing  trump  and  drum  ! 
Till,  answering  back  from  hill  and  glen 

The  rallying  cry  afar, 
A  NATION  hoists  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star  1 


By  every  stone  in  Charleston  Bay, 

By  each  beleaguered  town, 
We  swear  to  rest  not,  night  nor  day, 

But  hunt  the  tyrants  down  ! 
Till,  bathed  in  valor's  holy  blood 

The  gazing  world  afar 
Shall  greet  with  shouts  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  the  cross  and  star  ! 


CHRISTMAS.  203 

CHRISTMAS. 

BY    HENRY   TIMROD,  OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

How  grace  this  hallowed  day  ? 
Shall  happy  bells,  from  yonder  ancient  spire, 
Send  their  glad  greetings  to  each  Christmas  fire 
,,  Round  which  the  children  play? 

Alas  !  for  many  a  moon, 

That  tongueless  tower  hath  cleaved  the  Sabbath  air, 
Mute  as  an  obelisk  of  ice  aglare 

Beneath  an  Arctic  noon. 

Shame  to  the  foes  that  drown 
Our  psalms  of  worship  with  their  impious  drum. 
The  sweetest  chimes  in  all  the  land  lie  dumb 

In  some  far  rustic  town. 

There,  let  us  think,  they  keep, 
Of  the  dead  Yules  which  here  beside  the  sea 
They've  ushered  in  with  old-world,  English  glee, 

Some  echoes  in  their  sleep. 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day  ? 

With  feast,  and  song,  and  dance,  and  antique  sports, 
And  shout  of  happy  children  in  the  courts, 

And  tales  of  ghost  and  fay  ? 


204  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Is  there  indeed  a  door 

Where  the  old  pastimes,  with  their  lawful  noise, 
And  all  the  merry  round  of  Christmas  joys, 

Could  enter  as  of  yore  ? 

Would  not  some  pallid  face 
Look  in  upon  the  banquet,  calling  up 
Dread  shapes  of  battle  in  the  wassail  cup, 

And  trouble  all  the  place  ? 

How  could  we  bear  the  mirth, 
While  some  loved  reveller  of  a  year  ago 
Keeps  his  mute  Christmas  now  beneath  the  snow, 

In  cold  Virginian  earth  ? 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day? 
Ah  !  let  the  thought  that  on  this  holy  morn 
The  Prince  of  Peace — the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born, 

Employ  us,  while  we  pray  ! 

Pray  for  the  peace  which  long 
Hath  left  this  tortured  land,  and  haply  now 
Holds  its  white  court  on  some  far  mountain's  brow, 

There  hardly  safe  from  wrong. 

Let  every  sacred  fane 
Call  its  sad  votaries  to  the  shrine  of  God, 


CHRISTMAS.  205 


And,  with  the  cloister  and  the  tented  sod, 
Join  in  one  solemn  strain  ! 


With  pomp  of  Roman  form, 

With  the  grave  ritual  brought  from  England's  shore, 
And  with  the  simple  faith  which  asks  no  more 

Than  that  the  heart  be  warm. 


He,  who  till  time  shall  cease, 

Shall  watch  that  earth,  where  once,  not  all  in  vain, 
He  died  to  give  us  peace,  will  not  disdain 

A  prayer  whose  theme  is — peace. 

Perhaps,  ere  yet  the  spring 
Hath  died  into  the  summer,  over  all 
The  land,  the  peace  of  His  vast  love  shall  fall 

Like  some  protecting  wing. 

Oh,  ponder  what  it  means  I 
Oh,  turn  the  rapturous  thought  in  every  way  ! 
Oh,  give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play, 

And  shape  the  coming  scenes  1 

Peace  in  the  quiet  dales, 
Made  rankly  fertile  by  the  blood  of  men  ; 
Peace  in  the  woodland,  and  the  lonely  glen, 

Peace  in  the  peopled  vales  ! 


206  WAR  -POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Peace  in  the  crowded  town, 
Peace  in  a  thousand  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway  and  the  flowery  lane, 

Peace  on  the  wind-swept  down  ! 

Peace  on  the  furthest  seas, 

Peace  in  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  wheresoe'er  our  starry  garland  gleams, 

And  peace  in  every  breeze  ! 

Peace  on  the  whirring  marts, 
Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,  the  hunter  roams, 
Peace,  God  of  Peace  !  peace,  peace  in  all  our  homes, 

And  peace  in  all  our  hearts  1 


A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE. 

BY  S.  TEACKLE    WALLIS,  OF    MARYLAND. 

PEACE  !  Peace  !  God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  Peace  ! 

Unto  our  cry  of  anguish  and  despair 

Give  ear  and  pity  !     From  the  lonely  homes, 

Where  widowed  beggary  and  orphaned  woe 

Fill  their  poor  urns  with  tears  ;  from  trampled  plains, 

Where  the  bright  harvest  Thou  has  sent  us  rots — 

The  blood  of  them  who  should  have  garnered  it 

Calling  to  Thee — from  fields  of  carnage,  where 


A  PRATER  FOR  PEACE.  207 

The  foul-beaked  vultures,  sated,  flap  their  wings 
O'er  crowded  corpses,  that  but  yesterday 
Bore  hearts  of  brothers,  beating  high  with  love 
And  common  hopes  and  pride,  all  blasted  now — 
Father  of  Mercies  !  not  alone  from  these 
Our  prayer  and  wail  are  lifted.     Not  alone 
Upon  the  battle's  seared  and  desolate  track, 
Nor  with  the  sword  and  flame,  is  it,  0  God, 
That  Thou  hast  smitten  us.     Around  our  hearths, 
And  in  the  crowded  streets  and  busy  marts, 
Where  echo  whispers  not  the  far-off  strife 
That  slays  our  loved  ones  ;  in  the  solemn  halls 
Of  safe  and  quiet  counsel — nay,  beneath 
The  temple-roofs  that  we  have  reared  to  Thee, 
And  'mid  their  rising  incense — God  of  Peace  1 
The  curse  of  war  is  on  us.     Greed  and  hate 
Hungering  for  gold  and  blood  ;    Ambition,  bred 
Of  passionate  vanity  and  sordid  lusts, 
Mad  with  the  base  desire  of  tyrannous  sway 
Over  men's  souls  and  thoughts,  have  set  their  price 
On  human  hecatombs,  and  sell  and  buy 
Their  sons  and  brothers  for  the  shambles.     Priests, 
With  white,  anointed,  supplicating  hands, 
From  Sabbath  unto  Sabbath  clasped  to  Thee, 
Burn,  in  their  tingling  pulses,  to  fling  down 
Thy  censers  and  Thy  cross,  to  clutch  the  throats 
Of  kinsmen,  by  whose  cradles  they  were  born, 
Or  grasp  the  brand  of  Herod,  and  go  forth 
Till  Rachel  hath  no  children  left  to  slay. 


208  WAE  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  very  name  of  Jesus,  writ  upon 

Thy  shrines  beneath  the  spotless,  outstretched  wing's. 

Of  Thine  Almighty  Dove,  is  wrapt  and  hid 

With  bloody  battle-flags,  and  from  the  spires 

That  rise  above  them  angry  banners  flout 

The  skies  to  which  they  point,  amid  the  clang 

Of  rolling  war-songs  tuned  to  mock  Thy  praise. 


All  things  once  prized  and  honored  are  forgot  : 
The  freedom  that  we  worshipped  next  to  Thee  ; 
The  manhood  that  was  freedom's  spear  and  shield  ; 
The  proud,  true  heart  ;  the  brave,  outspoken  word, 
Which  might  be  stifled,  but  could  never  wear 
The  guise,  whatever  the  profit,  of  a  lie  ; 
All  these  are  gone,  and  in  their  stead  have  come 
The  vices  of  the  miser  and  the  slave — 
Scorning  no  shame  that  bringeth  gold  or  power, 
Knowing  no  love,  or  faith,  or  reverence, 
Or  sympathy,  or  tie,  or  aim,  or  hope, 
Save  as  begun  in  self,  and  ending  there. 
With  vipers  like  to  these,  oh  !  blessed  God  I 
Scourge  us  no  longer  !     Send  us  down,  once  more, 
Some  shining  seraph  in  Thy  glory  glad, 
To  wake  the  midnight  of  our  sorrowing 
With  tidings  of  good-will  and  peace  to  men  ; 
And  if  the  star,  that  through  the  darkness  led 
Earth's  wisdom  then,  guide  not  our  folly  now, 
Oh,  be  the  lightning  Thine  Evangelist, 


THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES.  v  209 

With  all  its  fiery,  forked  tongues,  to  speak 
The  unanswerable  message  of  Thy  will. 

Peace  !  Peace  !  God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  peace  ! 
Peace  in  our  hearts,  and  at  Thine  altars  ;  Peace 
On  the  red  waters  and  their  blighted  shores  ; 
Peace  for  the  'leaguered  cities,  and  the  hosts 
That  watch  and  bleed  around  them  and  within  , 
Peace  for  the  homeless  and  the  fatherless  ; 
Peace  for  the  captive  on  his  weary  way, 
And  the  mad  crowds  who  jeer  his  helplessness  ; 
For  them  that  suffer,  them  that  do  the  wrong 
Sinning  and  sinned  against. — 0  God  I  for  all  ; 
For  a  distracted,  torn,  and  bleeding  land — 
Speed  the  glad  tidings  !     Give  us,  give  us  Peace  ! 


THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES. 

(HEARD  AFTER  PELHAM  DIED.) 
BY  JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE. 

OH,  band  in  the  pine-wood,  cease  ! 

Cease  with  your  splendid  call  ; 
The  living  are  brave  and  noble, 

But  the  dead  were  bravest  of  all  I 

They  throng  to  the  martial  summons, 

To  the  loud,  triumphant  strain  ; 
10 


210  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  the  dear  bright  eyes  of  long-dead  friends 
Come  to  the  heart  again  ! 

They  come  with  the  ringing  bugle, 
And  the  deep  drum's  mellow  roar  ; 

Till  the  soul  is  faint  with  longing 
For  the  hands  we  clasp  no  more  I 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine-wood,  cease  1 
Or  the  heart  will  melt  in  tears, 

For  the  gallant  eyes  and  the  smiling  lips, 
And  the  voices  of  old  years  ! 


AT  FORT  PILLOW. 

IIBST  PUBLISHED   IN   THE   WILMINGTON  JOURNAL,    APRIL    25,    1864. 

You  shudder  as  you  think  upon 
The  carnage  of  the  grim  report, 

The  desolation  when  we  won 
The  inner  trenches  of  the  fort. 

But  there  are  deeds  you  may  not  know, 
That  scourge  the  pulses  into  strife  ; 

Dark  memories  of  deathless  woe 
Pointing  the  bayonet  and  knife. 


AT  FORT  PILLOW. 

The  house  is  ashes  where  I  dwelt, 
Beyond  the  mighty  inland  sea  ; 

The  tombstones  shattered  where  I  knelt, 
By  that  old  church  at  Pointe  Coupee. 

The  Yankee  fiends,  that  came  with  fire, 
Camped  on  the  consecrated  sod, 

And  trampled  in  the  dust  and  mire 
The  Holy  Eucharist  of  God  ! 

The  spot  where  darling  mother  sleeps, 
Beneath  the  glimpse  of  yon  sad  moon, 

Is  crushed,  with  splintered  marble  heaps, 
To  stall  the  horse  of  some  dragoon. 

God  !  when  I  ponder  that  black  day 
It  makes  my  frantic  spirit  wince  ; 

I  marched — with  Longstreet — far  away, 
But  have  beheld  the  ravage  since 

The  tears  are  hot  upon  my  face, 

When  thinking  what  bleak  fate  befell 

The  only  sister  of  our  race — 
A  thing  too  horrible  to  tell. 

They  say  that,  ere  her  senses  fled, 
She  rescue  of  her  brothers  cried  ; 


211 


212  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Then  feebly  bowed  her  stricken  head, 
Too  pure  to  live  thus — so  she  died. 

Two  of  those  brothers  heard  no  plea  ; 

With  their  proud  hearts  forever  still- 
John  shrouded  by  the  Tennessee, 

And  Arthur  there  at  Malverri  Hill. 


But  I  have  heard  it  everywhere, 
Vibrating  like  a  passing  knell  ; 

?Tis  as  perpetual  as  the  air, 
And  solemn  as  a  funeral  bell. 

By  scorched  lagoon  and  murky  swamp 
My  wrath  was  never  in  the  lurch  ; 

I've  killed  the  picket  in  his  camp, 
And  many  a  pilot  on  his  perch. 

With  steady  rifle,  sharpened  brand, 

A  week  ago,  upon  my  steed, 
With  Forrest  and  his  warrior  band, 

I  made  the  hell-hounds  writhe  and  bleed. 

You  should  have  seen  our  leader  go 
Upon  the  battle's  burning  marge, 

Swooping,  like  falcon,  on  the  foe, 
Heading  the  gray  line's  iron  charge  ! 


AT  FORT  PILLOW.  213 

All  outcasts  from  our  ruined  marts, 

We  heard  th7  undying  serpent  hiss, 
And  in  the  desert  of  oui  hearts 

The  fatal  spell  of  Nemesis. 

The  Southern  yell  rang  loud  and  high 

The  moment  that  we  thundered  in, 
Smiting  the  demons  hip  and  thigh, 

Cleaving  them  to  the  very  chin. 

My  right  arm  bared  for  fiercer  play, 

The  left  one  held  the  rein  in  slack  ; 
In  all  the  fury  of  the  fray 

I  sought  the  white  man,  not  the  black. 

The  dabbled  clots  of  brain  and  gore 

Across  the  swirling  sabres  ran  ; 
To  me  each  brutal  visage  bore 

The  front  of  one  accursed  man. 

Throbbing  along  the  frenzied  vein, 
My  blood  seemed  kindled  into  song — 

The  death-dirge  of  the  sacred  slain, 
The  slogan  of  immortal  wrong. 

It  glared  athwart  the  dripping  glaves, 

It  blazed  in  each  avenging  eye — 
The  thought  of  desecrated  graves, 

And  some  lone  sister's  desperate  cry  ! 


214  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


FROM  THE   RAPIDAN— 1864. 

A  LOW  wind  in  the  pines  ! 

And  a  dull  pain  in  the  breast ! 
And  oh  1  for  the  sigh  of  her  lips  and  eyes  — 

One  touch  of  the  hand  I  pressed  I 


The  slow,  sad  lowland  wind, 

It  sighs  through  the  livelong  day, 

While  the  splendid  mountain  breezes  blow, 
And  the  autumn  is  burning  away. 

Here  the  pines  sigh  ever  above, 
And  the  broomstraw  sighs  below  ; 

And  far  from  the  bare,  bleak,  windy  fields 
Comes  the  note  of  the  drowsy  crow. 

There  the  trees  are  crimson  arid  gold, 
Like  the  tints  of  a  magical  dawn, 

And  the  slender  form,  in  the  dreamy  days, 
By  the  slow  stream  rambles  on. 

Oh,  day  that  weighs  on  the  heart  I 

Oh,  wind  in  the  dreary  pines  ! 
Does  she  think  on  me  'mid  the  golden  hours, 

Past  the  mountain's  long  blue  lines  ? 


SO  NO  OF  OUR  GLORIOUS  SOUTHLAND.  215 

The  old  house,  lonely  and  still, 

By  the  sad  Shenandoah's  waves, 
Must  be  touched  to-day  by  the  sunshine's  gleam, 

As  the  spring  flowers  bloom  on  graves. 


Oh,  sunshine,  flitting  and  sad, 

Oh,  wind,  that  forever  sighs  ! 
The  hall  may  be  bright,  but  my  life  is  dark 

For  the  sunshine  of  her  eyes  ! 


SONG   OF   OUR  GLORIOUS   SOUTHLAND. 

BY    MRS.    MARY    WARE. 
FROM  THE   SOUTHERN   FIELD   AND    FIRESIDE. 

I. 

OH,  sing  of  our  glorious  Southland, 
The  pride  of  the  golden  sun  ! 

Tis  the  fairest  land  of  flowers 
The  eye  e'er  looked  upon. 

Sing  of  her  orange  and  myrtle 
That  glitter  like  gems  above  ; 

Sing  of  her  dark-eyed  maidens 
As  fair  as  a  dream  of  love. 


216  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Sing  of  her  flowing  rivers — 
How  musical  their  sound  ! 

Sing  of  her  dark  green  forests, 
The  Indian  hunting-ground. 

Sing  of  the  noble  nation 

Fierce  struggling  to  be  free  ; 

Sing  of  the  brave  who  barter 
Their  lives  for  liberty  ! 

n. 

Weep  for  the  maid  and  matron 

Who  mourn  their  loved  ones  slain  ; 

Sigh  for  the  light  departed, 
Never  to  shine  again  : 


'Tis  the  voice  of  Rachel  weeping, 
That  never  will  comfort  know  ; 

>Tis  the  wail  of  desolation, 

The  breaking  of  hearts  in  woe  ! 


in. 

Ah  !  the  blood  of  Abel  crieth 
For  vengeance  from  the  sod  ! 

>Tis  a  brother's  hand  that's  lifted 
In  the  face  of  an  angry  God  ! 


SONNET.  217 

Oh  I  brother  of  the  Northland, 
We  plead  from  our  father's  grave  ; 

We  strike  for  our  homes  and  altars, 
He  fought  to  build  and  save  ! 

A  smouldering  fire  is  burning, 

The  Southern  heart  is  steeled — 
Perhaps  'twill  break  in  dying, 

But  never  will  it  yield. 


SONNET. 

BY    PAUL   H.    HAYNE. 

RISE  from  your  gory  ashes  stern  and  pale, 
Ye  martyred  thousands  I  and  with  dreadful  ire, 
A  voice  of  doom,  a  front  of  gloomy  fire, 
Rebuke  those  faithless  souls,  whose  querulous  wail 
Disturbs  your  sacred  sleep  ! — "  The  withering  hail 
Of   battle,  hunger,  pestilence,  despair, 
Whatever  of  mortal  anguish  man  may  bear, 
We  bore  unmurmuring  !  strengthened  by  the  mail 
Of  a  most  holy  purpose  ! — then  we  died  ! — 
Vex  not  our  rest  by  cries  of  selfish  pain, 
But  to  the  noblest  measure  of  your  powers 
Endure  the  appointed  trial  !     Griefs  defied, 
But  launch  their  threatening  thunderbolts  in  vain, 
And  angry  storms  pass  by  in  gentlest  showers  1" 
10* 


218  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


HOSPITAL  DUTIES. 

CHARLESTON    COURIER. 

FOLD  away  all  your  bright-tinted  dresses, 

Turn  the  key  on  your  jewels  to-day, 
And  the  wealth  of  your  tendril-like  tresses 

Braid  back  in  a  serious  way  ; 
No  more  delicate  gloves,  no  more  laces, 

No  more  trifling  in  boudoir  or  bower, 
But  come  with  your  souls  in  your  faces 

To  meet  the  stern  wants  of  the  hour. 


Look  around.     By  the  torchlight  unsteady 
The  dead  and  the  dying  seem  one — 

What  !  trembling  and  paling  already, 
Before  your  dear  mission's  begun  ? 

These  wounds  are  more  precious  than  ghastly- 
Time  presses  her  lips  to  each  scar, 

While  she  chants  of  that  glory  which  vastly 
Transcends  all  the  horrors  of  war. 


Pause  here  by  this  bedside.     How  mellow. 

The  light  showers  down  on  that  brow  ! 
Such  a  brave,  brawny  visage,  poor  fellow 

Some  homestead  is  missing  him  now. 


HOSPITAL  DUTIES. 


Some  wife  shades  her  eyes  in  the  clearing, 
Some  mother  sits  moaning  distressed, 

While  the  loved  one  lies  faint  but  unfearing, 
With  the  enemy's  ball  in  his  breast. 


Here's  another — a  lad — a  mere  stripling, 

Picked  up  in  the  field  almost  dead, 
With  the  blood  through  his  sunny  hair  rippling 

From  the  horrible  gash  in  the  head. 
They  say  he  was  first  in  the  action  : 

Gay-hearted,  quick-headed,  and  witty  : 
He  fought  till  he  dropped  with  exhaustion 

At  the  gates  of  our  fair  southern  city. 

Fought  and  fell  'neath  the  guns  of  that  city, 

With  a  spirit  transcending  his  years — 
Lift  him  up  in  your  large-hearted  pity, 

And  wet  his  pale  lips  with  your  tears. 
Touch  him  gently  ;  most  sacred  the  duty 

Of  dressing  that  poor  shattered  hand  I 
God  spare  him  to  rise  in  his  beauty, 

And  battle  once  more  for  his  land  I 


Pass  on  !  it  is  useless  to  linger 

While  others  are  calling  your  care  ; 

There  is  need  for  your  delicate  finger, 
For  your  womanly  sympathy  there. 


220  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

There  are  sick  ones  athirst  for  caressing, 
There  are  dying  ones  raving  at  home, 

There  are  wounds  to  be  bound  with  a  blessing, 
And  shrouds  to  make  ready  for  some. 


They  have  gathered  about  you  the  harvest 

Of  death  in  its  ghastliest  view  ; 
The  nearest  as  well  as  the  furthest 

Is  there  with  the  traitor  and  true. 
And  crowned  with  your  beautiful  patience, 

Made  sunny  with  love  at  the  heart, 
You  must  balsam  the  wounds  of  the  nations, 

Nor  falter  nor  shrink  from  your  part. 


And  the  lips  of  the  mother  will  bless  you, 

And  angels,  sweet-visaged  and  pale, 
And  the  little  ones  run  to  caress  you, 

And  the  wives  and  the  sisters  cry  hail ! 
But  e'en  if  you  drop  down  unheeded, 

What  matter  ?     God's  ways  are  the  best : 
You  have  poured  out  your  life  where  'twas  needed, 

And  he  will  take  care  of  the  rest. 


THEY  CRT  PEACE,   PEACE.  221 


THEY  CRY  PEACE,  PEACE,  WHEN  THERE  IS 
NO  PEACE. 

BY  MRS.  ALETHEA  S.  BURROUGHS,  OF  GEORGIA. 

THEY  are  ringing  peace  on  my  heavy  ear — 

No  peace  to  my  heavy  heart ! 
They  are  ringing  peace,  I  hear  !  I  hear  ! 

0  God  !  how  my  hopes  depart  ! 


They  are  ringing  peace  from  the  mountain  side  ; 

'With  a  hollow  voice  it  comes — 
They  are  ringing  peace  o'er  the  foaming  tide, 

And  its  echoes  fill  our  homes. 

They  are  ringing  peace,  and  the  spring-time  blooms 

Like  a  garden  fresh  and  fair  ; 
But  our  martyrs  sleep  in  their  silent  tombs — 

Do  they  hear  that  sound — do  they  hear  ? 

They  are  ringing  peace,  and  the  battle-cry 

And  the  bayonet's  work  are  done, 
And  the  armor  bright  they  are  laying  by, 

From  the  brave  sire  to  the  son. 

And  the  musket's  clang,  and  the  soldier's  drill, 
And  the  tattoo's  nightly  sound  ; 


222  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

We  shall  hear  no  more,  with  a  joyous  thrill, 
Peace,  peace,  they  are  ringing  round  ! 

There  are  women,  still  as  the  stifled  air 

On  the  burning  desert's  track, 
Not  a  cry  of  joy,  not  a  welcome  cheer — 

And  their  brave  ones  coming  back  ! 

There  are  fair  young  heads  in  their  morning  pride, 

Like  the  lilies  pale  they  bow  ; 
Just  a  memory  left  to  the  soldier's  bride —  « 

Ah,  God  !  sustain  her  now  ! 

There  are  martial  steps  that  we  may  not  hear  I 

There  are  forms  we  may  not  see  ! 
Death's  muster  roll  they  have  answered  clear, 

They  are  free!  thank  God,  they  are  free! 

Not  a  fetter  fast,  nor  a  prisoner's  chain 

For  the  noble  army  gone — 
No  conqueror  conies  o'er  the  heavenly  plain — 

Peace,  peace  to  the  dead  alone  ! 

They  are  ringing  peace,  but  strangers  tread 
O'er  the  land  where  our  fathers  trod, 

And  our  birthright  joys,  like  a  dream,  have  fled, 
And  Thou  !  where  art  Thou,  0  God  ! 


BALLAD— "WHAT!  HAVE  YE  THOUGHT?"  223 

They  are  ringing  peace  !  not  here,  not  here, 

Where  the  victor's  mark  is  set ; 
Eoll  back  to  the  North  its  mocking  cheer — 

No  peace  to  the  Southland  yet  ! 

We  may  sheathe  the  sword,  and  the  rifle-gun 

We  may  hang  on  the  cottage  wall, 
And  the  bayonet  brave,  sharp  duty  done, 

From  the  soldier's  arm  it  may  fall. 

But  peace  ! — no  peace  !  till  the  same  good  sword, 

Drawn  out  from  its  scabbard  be, 
And  the  wide  world  list  to  my  country's  word, 

And  the  South  !  oh,  the  South,  be  free  ! 
CHARLESTON  BROADSIDE. 


BALL  AD— "  WHAT  !  HAVE  YE  THOUGHT 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 
I. 

WHAT  !  have  ye  thought  to  pluck 

Victory  from  chance  and  luck, 
Triumph  from  clamorous  shout,  without  a  will  ? 

Without  the  heart  to  brave 

All  peril  to  the  grave, 
And  battle  on  its  brink,  unshrinking  still  ? 


224  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

II. 

And  did  ye  dream  success 

Would  still  unvarying  bless 
Your  arms,  nor  meet  reverse  in  some  dread  field  ? 

And  shall  an  adverse  hour 

Make  ye  mistrust  the  power 
Of  virtue,  in  your  souls,  to  make  your  enemy  yield  ? 

in. 

Oh  !  from  this  dreary  sleep 

Arise,  and  upward  leap, 
Nor  let  your  hearts  grow  palsied  with  dismay  ! 

Fling  out  your  banner  high, 

Still  challenging  the  sky, 
While  thousand  strong  arms  bear  it  on  its  way. 

IV. 

Forth,  as  a  sacred  band, 

Sworn  saviours  of  the  land, 
Chosen  by  God,  the  champions  of  the  right  I 

And  never  doubt  that  He 

Who  made  will  keep  ye  free, 
If  thus  your  souls  resolve  to  triumph  in  the  fight  I 

v. 

The  felon  foe,  no  more 
Trampling  the  sacred  shore, 


MISSING.  225 

Shall  leave  defiling  footprint  on  the  sod  ; 

Where,  desperate  in  the  strife, 

Reckless  of  wounds  and  life, 
Ye  brave  your  myriad  foes  beneath  the  eye  of  God  I 


VI. 

On  brothers,  comrades,  men, 

Rush  to  the  field  again  ; 
Home,  peace,  love,  safety — freedom — are  the  prize 

Strike  !  while  an  arm  can  bear 

Weapon — and  do  not  spare — 
Ye  break  a  felon  bond  in  every  foe  that  dies  1 


MISSING. 

IN  the  cool,  sweet  hush  of  a  wooded  nook, 

Where  the  May  buds  sprinkle  the  green  old  mound, 
And  the  winds,  and  the  birds,  and  the  limpid  brook, 

Murmur  their  dreams  with  a  drowsy  sound  ; 
Who  lies  so  still  in  the  plushy  moss, 

With  his  pale  cheek  pressed  on  a  breezy  pillow, 
Couched  where  the  light  and  the  shadows  cross 

Through  the  flickering  fringe  of  the  willow  ? 

Who  lies,  alas  ! 
So  still,  so  chill,  in  the  whispering  grass  ? 


226  WAX  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

A  soldier  clad  in  the  Zouave  dress, 

A  bright-haired  man,  with  his  lips  apart, 
One  hand  thrown  up  o'er  his  frank,  dead  face, 

And  the  other  clutching1  his  pulseless  heart, 
Lies  here  in  the  shadows,  cool  and  dim, 

His  musket  swept  by  a  trailing  bough, 
With  a  careless  grace  in  each  quiet  limb, 

And  a  wound  on  his  manly  brow  ; 

A  wound,  alas  ! 
Whence  the  warm  blood  drips  on  the  quiet  grass. 

The  violets  peer  from  their  dusky  beds, 

With  a  tearful  dew  in  their  great,  pure  eyes  ; 
The  lilies  quiver  their  shining  heads, 

Their  pale  lips  full  of  a  sad  surprise  ; 
And  the  lizard  darts  through  the  glistening  fern— 

And  the  squirrel  rustles  the  branches  hoary  ; 
Strange  birds  fly  out,  with  a  cry,  to  bathe 

Their  wings  in  the  sunset  glory ; 
While  the  shadows  pass 
O'er  the  quiet  face  and  the  dewy  grass. 

God  pity  the  bride  who  waits  at  home, 
With  her  lily  cheeks  and  her  violet  eyes, 

Dreaming  the  sweet  old  dreams  of  love, 
While  her  lover  is  walking  in  Paradise  ; 

God  strengthen  her  heart  as  the  days  go  by, 
And  the  long,  drear  nights  of  her  vigil  follow, 


ODE— "SOULS  OF  HEROES:'' 


Nor  bird,  nor  moon,  nor  whispering  wind, 
May  breathe  the  tale  of  the  hollow  ; 

Alas  !  alas  ! 
The  secret  is  safe  with  the  woodland  grass. 


ODE—"  SOULS  OF  HEROES." 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 

SOULS  of  heroes,  ascended  from  fields  ye  have  won, 
Still  smile  on  the  conflict  so  greatly  begun  ; 
Bring  succor  to  comrade,  to  brother,  to  son 

Now  breasting  the  battle  in  ranks  of  the  brave  ; 
And  the  dastard  that  loiters,  the  conflict  to  shun, 

Pursue  him  with  scorn  to  the  grave  ! 


n. 


227 


Pursue  him  with  furies  that  goad  to  despair, 

Hunt  him  out,  where  he  crouches  in  crevice  and  lair, 

Drive  him  forth,  while  the  wife  of  his  bosom  cries—"  There 

Goes  the  coward  that  skulks,  though  his  sister  and  wife 
Tremble,  nightly,  in  sleep,  overshadowed  by  fear 

Of  a  sacrifice  dearer  than  life." 


m. 


There  are  thousands  that  loiter,  of  historied  claim, 
Who  boast  of  the  heritage  shrined  in  each  name— 


228  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Sting  their  souls  to  the  quick,  till  they  shrink  from  the 
shame 

Which  dishonors  the  names  and  the  past  of  their  boast ; 
Even  now  they  may  win  the  best  guerdon  of  fame, 

And  retrieve  the  bright  honors  they've  lost ! 


IV. 

Even  now,  while  their  country  is  torn  in  the  toils, 
While  the  wild  boar  is  raging  to  raven  the  spoils, 
While  the  boa  is  spreading  around  us  the  coils 

Which  would  strangle  the  freedom  our  ancestors  gave  ; 
But  each  soul  must  be  quickened  until  it  o'er-boils, 

Every  muscle  be  corded  to  save  ! 


v. 

Still  the  cause  is  the  same  which,  in  long  ages  gone, 
Roused  up  your  great  sires,  so  gallantly  known, 
When,  braving  the  tyrant,  the  sceptre  and  throne, 

They  rushed  to  the  conflict,  despising  the  odds  ; 
Armed  with  bow,  spear,  and  scythe,  and  with  sling  and 
with  stone, 

For  their  homes  and  their  family  gods  ' 


VI. 

Shall  we  be  less  worthy  the  sacrifice  grand, 
The  heritage  noble  we  took  at  their  hand, 


The  peace  and  the  comfort,  the  fruits  of  the  land  ; 

And,  sunk  in  a  torpor  as  hopeless  as  base, 
Recoil  from  the  shock  of  the  Sodomite  band, 

That  would  ruin  the  realm  and  the  race  ? 


Souls  of  heroes,  ascended  from  fields  ye  have  won, 
Your  toils  are  not  closed  in  the  deeds  ye  have  done  ; 
Touch  the  souls  of  each  laggard  and  profligate  son, 

The  greed  and  the  sloth,  and  the  cowardice  shame  ; 
Till  we  rise  to  complete  the  great  work  ye've  begun, 

And  with  freedom  make  conquest  of  fame  ! 


JACKSON. 

KV  H.  L.  FLASH,  OF  GALVESTON,  FORMERLY  OF  MOBILE. 

NOT  midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Nor  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Did  kingly  death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke, 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town  : 
When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 

That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 


230  WA*t  POEl'RY   UF  Iliti  SOUTH. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Recalling  all  his  grand  heroic  deeds, 
Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  riot  the  nation's  promised  land, 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth  : 
But  broke  the  house  of  bondage  with  his  hand — • 
The  Moses  of  the  South  ! 

0  gracious  God  I  not  gainless  in  the  loss  ; 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  the  sternest  frown  ; 
And  while  his  country  staggers  with  the  cross, 

He  rises  with  the  crown  ! 
MOBILE  ADVERTISER  ANO  REGISTER. 


CAPTAIN  MAFFIT'S  BALLAD  OF  THE  SEA. 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 


THOUGH  winds  are  high  and  skies  are  dark, 
And  the  stars  scarce  show  us  a  meteor  spark  ; 
Yet  buoyantly  bounds  our  gallant  barque, 

Through  billows  that  flash  in  a  sea  of  blue  ; 
We  are  coursing  free,  like  the  Viking  shark, 

And  our  prey,  like  him,  pursue  ! 


CAPTAIN  MAFFITS  BALLAD   OF  THE  SEA.  231 

II. 

At  each  plunge  of  our  prow  we  bare  the  graves, 
Where,  heedless  of  roar  among  winds  and  waves, 
The  dead  have  slept  in  their  ocean  caves, 

Never  once  dreaming — as  if  no  more 
They  hear,  though  the  Storm-God  ramps  and  raves 

From  the  deeps  to  the  rock-bound  shore. 

in. 

Brave  sailors  were  they  in  the  ancient  times, 

Heroes  or  pirates — men  of  all  climes, 

That  had  never  an  ear  for  the  Sabbath  chimes, 

Never  once  called  on  the  priest  to  be  shriven  ; 
They  died  with  the  courage  that  still  sublimes, 

And,  haply,  may  fit  for  Heaven. 

IV. 

Never  once  asking  the  when  or  why, 
But  ready,  all  hours,  to  battle  and  die, 
They  went  into  fight  with  a  terrible  cry, 

Counting  no  odds,  and,  victors  or  slain, 
Meeting  fortune  or  fate  with  an  equal  eye, 
Defiant  of  death  and  pain. 

v. 

Dread  are  the  tales  of  the  wondrous  deep, 
And  well  do  the  billows  their  secrets  keep, 


232  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  sound  should  those  savage  old  sailors  sleep, 
If  sleep  they  may  after  such  a  life  ; 

Where  every  dark  passion,  alert  and  aleap, 
Made  slumber  itself  a  strife. 


VI. 

What  voices  of  horror,  through  storm  and  surge, 

Sang  in  the  perishing  ear  its  dirge, 

As,  raging  and  rending,  o'er  Hell's  black  verge, 

Each  howling  soul  sank  to  its  doom  ; 
And  what  thunder-tones  from  the  deeps  emerge, 

As  yawns  for  its  prey  the  tomb  ! 


VII. 

We  plough  the  same  seas  which  the  rovers  trod, 
But  with  better  faith  in  the  saving  God, 
And  bear  aloft  and  carry  abroad 

The  starry  cross,  our  sacred  sign, 
Which,  never  yet  sullied  by  crime  or  fraud, 

Makes  light  o'er  the  midnight  brine. 


VIII. 

And  we  rove  not  now  on  a  lawless  quest, 
With  passions  foul  in  the  hero's  breast, 
Moved  by  no  greed  at  the  fiend's  behest, 
Gloating  in  lust  o'er  a  bloody  prey  ; 


CAPTAIN  MAFF1TS  £  ALL  AD   OF  THE  SEA.  033 

But  from  tyrant  robber  the  spoil  to  wrest, 
And  tear  down  his  despot  sway  ! 

IX. 

'Gainst  the  spawn  of  Europe,  and  all  the  lands, 
British  and  German — Norway's  sands, 
Dutchland  and  Irish — the  hireling  bands 

Bought  for  butchery — recking  no  rede, 
But,  flocking  like  vultures,  with  felon  hands, 

To  fatten  the  rage  of  greed. 


x. 

With  scath  they  traverse  both  land  and  sea, 
And  with  sacred  wrath  we  must  make  them  flee  ; 
Making  the  path  of  the  nations  free, 

And  planting  peace  in  the  heart  of  strife  ; 
In  the  star  of  the  cross,  our  liberty 

Brings  light  to  the  world,  and  life  ! 


XI. 

Let  Christendom  cower  'neath  Stripes  and  Stars, 

Cloaking  her  shame  under  legal  bars, 

Not  too  moral  for  traffic,  but  shirking  wars, 

While  the  Southern  cross,  floating  topmast  high, 
Though  torn,  perchance,  by  a  thousand  scars, 

Shall  light  up  the  midnight  sky  I 

11 


234  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

MELT  THE  BELLS. 

p.  Y.  ROCKETT. — Memphis  Appeal. 

The  following  lines  were  written  on  General  Beauregard's  appeal  to  tt.a 
people  to  contribute  their  bells,  that  they  may  be  melted  into  cannon. 

MELT  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Still  the  tinkling1  on  the  plains, 
And  transmute  the  evening  chimes 
Into  war's  resounding  rhymes, 
That  the  invaders  may  be  slain 
By  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
That  for  years  have  called  to  prayer, 
And,  instead,  the  cannon's  roar 
Shall  resound  the  valleys  o'er, 
That  the  foe  may  catch  despair 
From  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Though  it  cost  a  tear  to  part 
With  the  music  they  have  made, 
Where  the  friends  we  love  are  laid, 
With  pale  cheek  and  silent  heart, 
'Neath  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Into  cannon,  vast  and  grim, 


JOHN  PEL  HAM.  23  5 

And  the  foe  shall  feel  the  ire 
From  each  heaving-  lung's  of  fire, 
And  we'll  put  our  trust  in  Him 
And  the  bells. 


Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
And  when  foes  no  more  attack, 
And  the  lightning-  cloud  of  war 
Shall  roll  thunderless  and  far, 
We  will  melt  the  cannon  back 
Into  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
And  they'll  peal  a  sweeter  chime, 
And  remind  of  all  the  brave 
Who  have  sunk  to  glory's  grave, 
And  will  sleep  thro'  coming  time 
'Neath  the  bells. 


JOHN    PELHAM. 

BY  JAMES  R.  RANDALL. 


JUST  as  the  spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer  ; 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 


236  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath 

His  bleeding  country  weeps — 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  Child  of  Rome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds  ; 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle  brunt, 

The  champion  of  the  truth, 
He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells. 

The  pennon  drops  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field  ; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face, 
While  'round  the  lips  and  eyes, 


"YE  BATTERIES  OF  BEAUREGARD"  23? 

Couched  in  the  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 
Of  a  divine  surprise. 

Oh,  mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high  ! 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed — 
Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes  of  the  sky, 

Among  the  Southern  dead. 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown — 
He — with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath 

Twining  the  victor's  crown  ! 


"YE  BATTERIES  OF  BEAUREGARD.' 

BY   J.  R.  BARRICK,  OF    KENTUCKY. 

"  YE  batteries  of  Beauregard  !" 

Pour  your  hail  from  Moultrie's  wall  ; 
Bid  the  shock  of  your  deep  thunder 

On  their  fleet  in  terror  fall : 
Rain  your  storm  of  leaden  fury 

On  the  black  invading  host — 
Teach  them  that  their  step  shall  never 

Press  on  Carolina's  coast. 


238  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

11  Ye  batteries  of  Beauregard  !" 

Sound  the  story  of  our  wrong  ; 
Let  your  tocsin  wake  the  spirit 

Of  a  people  brave  and  strong  ; 
Her  proud  names  of  old  remember — 

Marion,  Sumter,  Pinckney,  Greene  ; 
Swell  the  roll  whose  deeds  of  glory 

Side  by  side  with  theirs  are  seen. 


"  Ye  batteries  of  Beauregard  !" 

From  Savannah  on  them  frown  ; 
By  the  majesty  of  Heaven 

Strike  their  "  grand  armada"  down  ; 
By  the  blood  of  many  a  freeman, 

By  each  dear-bought  battle-field, 
By  the  hopes  we  fondly  cherish, 

Never  ye  the  victory  yield. 


"  Ye  batteries  of  Beauregard  1" 

All  along  our  Southern  coast, 
Let,  in  after-time,  your  triumphs, 

Be  a  nation's  pride  and  boast  ; 
Send  each  missile  with  a  greeting 

To  the  vile,  ungodly  crew  ; 
Make  them  feel  they  ne'er  can  conquer 

People  to  themselves  so  true. 


' '  WHEN  PEA  GE  RETURNS. "  231) 

"  Ye  batteries  of  Beauregard  !" 

By  the  glories  of  the  past, 
By  the  memory  of  old  Sumter, 

Whose  renown  will  ever  last, 
Speed  upon  their  vaunted  legions 

Volleys  thick  of  shot  and  shell, 
Bid  them  welcome,  in  your  glory, 

To  their  own  appointed  hell. 


"WHEN   PEACE    RETURNS." 

PUBLISHED   IN   THE    GRANADA   PICKET. 
BY    OLIVIA    TULLY   THOMAS. 

WHEN  "  war  has  smoothed  his  wrinkled  front," 

And  meek-eyed  peace  returning, 
Has  brightened  hearts  that  long  were  wont 

To  sigh  in  grief  and  mourning — 
How  blissful  then  will  be  the  day 

When,  from  the  wars  returning, 
The  weary  soldier  wends  his  way 

To  dear  ones  that  are  yearning. 

To  clasp  in  true  love's  fond  embrace, 

To  gaze  with  looks  so  tender 
Upon  the  war-worn  form  and  face 

Of  Liberty's  defender  ; 


240  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

To  count  with  pride  each  cruel  scar, 
That  mars  the  manly  beauty, 

Of  him  who  proved  so  brave  in  war, 
So  beautiful  in  duty. 


When  peace  returns,  throughout  our  land, 

Glad  shouts  of  welcome  render 
The  gallant  few  of  Freedom's  band 

Whose  cry  was  "  no  surrender  ;" 
Who  battled  bravely  to  be  free 

From  tyranny's  oppressions, 
And  won,  for  Southern  chivalry, 

The  homage  of  all  nations  ! 

And  when,  again,  in  Southern  bowers 

The  ray  of  peace  is  shining, 
Her  maidens  gather  fairest  flowers, 

And  honor's  wreaths  are  twining, 
To  bind  the  brows  victorious 

On  many  a  field  so  gory, 
Whose  names,  renowned  and  glorious, 

Shall  live  in  so&g  and  story, 

Then  will  affection's  tear  be  shed, 

And  pity,  joy  restraining, 
For  those,  the  lost,  lamented  dead, 

Are  all  beyond  our  plaining  ; 


THE  EIGHT  ABOVE  THE   WRONG,  241 

They  fell  in  manhood's  prime  and  might ; 

And  we  should  not  weep  the  story 
That  tells  of  Fame,  a  sacred  light, 

Above  each  grave  of  glory  ! 


THE  RIGHT  ABOVE  THE  WRONG. 

BY    JOHN    W.    OVERALL. 

IN  other  days  our  fathers'  love  was  loyal,  full,  and  free, 
For  those  they  left  behind  them  in  the  Island  of  the  Sea  ; 
They  fought  the  battles  of  King  George,  and  toasted  him  in 

song, 
For   then   the   Right   kept   proudly  down   the   tyranny  ot 

Wrong. 

But  when   the  King's  weak,  willing   slaves   laid   tax   upon 

the  tea, 
The  Western  men  rose  up  and  braved  the   Island  of  the 

Sea; 

And  swore  a  fearful  oath  to  God,  those  rnen  of  iron  might, 
That  in  the  end  the  Wrong  should  die,  and  up  should  go 

the  Right. 

The  King  sent  over  hireling  hosts — the  Briton,  Hessian, 

Scot— 
And  swore  in  turn  those  Western  men,  when  captured,  should 

be  shot  ; 

11* 


242  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

While  Chatham  spoke  with  earnest  tongue  against  the  hire 
ling  throng, 

And  mournfully  saw  the  Right  go  down,  and  place  given  to 
the  Wrong. 

But  God  was  on  the  righteous  side,  and  Gideon's  sword 

was  out, 
With   clash   of  steel,    and   rattling   drum,    and   freeman's 

thunder-shout ; 
And  crimson  torrents  drenched  the  land  through  that  long-, 

stormy  fight, 
But  in  the  end,   hurrah  !    the  Wrong  was  beaten  by  the 

Right  ! 

Arid  when  again  the  foemen  came  from  out  the  Northern  Sea, 

To  desolate  our  smiling  land  and  subjugate  the  free, 

Our  fathers  rushed  to  drive  them  back,  with  rifles  keen  and 

long, 
And  swore  a  mighty  oath,  the  Right  should  subjugate  the 

Wrong. 

And  while  the  world  was  looking  on,  the  strife  uncertain 

grew, 

But  soon  aloft  rose  up  our  stars  amid  a  field  of  blue  ; 
For  Jackson  fought  on  red  Chalmette,  and  won  the  glorious 

fight, 
A.nd  then  the   Wrong  went  down,  hurrah  !    and  triumph 

crowned  the  Right ! 


CARMEN  TRIUMPH  ALE.  243 

The  day  has  come  again,  when  men  who  love  the  beauteous 

South, 
To  speak,  if  needs  be,  for  the  Eight,  though  by  the  cannon's 

mouth  ; 
For  foes  accursed  of  God  and  man,  with  lying  speech  and 

song, 
\^  ould  bind,  imprison,  hang  the  Right,  and  deify  the  Wrong. 

But  canting  knave  of  pen  and  sword,  nor  sanctimonious  fool, 
Shall  never  win  this  Southern  land,  to  cripple,  bind,  and 

rule  ; 
We'll  muster  on  each  bloody  plain,  thick  as  the  stars  of 

night, 
And,  through  the  help  of  God,  the  Wrong  shall  perish  by 

the  Right. 


CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE. 

BY    HENRY   TIMROD. 

Go  forth  and  bid  the  land  rejoice, 
Yet  not  too  gladly,  oh  my  song  ! 
Breathe  softly,  as  if  mirth  would  wrong 

The  solemn  rapture  of  thy  voice. 

Be  nothing  lightly  done  or  said 

This  happy  day  !     Our  joy  should  flow 
Accordant  with  the  lofty  woe 

That  wails  above  the  noble  dead. 


244  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Let  him  whose  brow  and  breast  were  calm 
While  yet  the  battle  lay  with  God, 
Look  down  upon  the  crimson  sod 

And  gravely  wear  his  mournful  palm  ; 

And  him,  whose  heart  still  weak  from  fear 
Beats  all  too  gayly  for  the  time, 
Know  that  intemperate  glee  is  crime 

While  one  dead  hero  claims  a  tear. 

Yet  go  thou  forth,  my  song  !  and  thrill, 
With  sober  joy,  the  troubled  days  ; 
A  nation's  hymn  of  grateful  praise 

May  not  be  hushed  for  private  ill. 

Our  foes  are  fallen  !     Flash,  ye  wires  ! 

The  mighty  tidings  far  and  nigh  ! 

Ye  cities  !  write  them  on  the  sky 
In  purple  and  in  emerald  fires  ! 

They  came  with  many  a  haughty  boast  ; 

Their  threats  were  heard  on  every  breeze  ; 

They  darkened  half  the  neighboring  seas, 
And  swooped  like  vultures  on  the  coast. 

False  recreants  in  all  knightly  strife, 

Their  way  was  wet  with  woman's  tears  ; 


CARMEN  TRIUMPH  ALE.  945 

Behind  them  flamed  the  toil  of  years, 
And  bloodshed  stained  the  sheaves  of  life. 

They  fought  as  tyrants  fight,  or  slaves  ; 

God  gave  the  dastards  to  our  hands  ; 

Their  bones  are  bleaching  on  the  sands, 
Or  mouldering  slow  in  shallow  graves. 

What  though  we  hear  about  our  path 

The  heavens  with  howls  of  vengeance  rout  ; 
The  venom  of  their  hate  is  spent ; 

We  need  not  heed  their  fangless  wrath. 

Meantime  the  stream  they  strove  to  chain 
Now  drinks  a  thousand  springs,  and  sweeps 
With  broadening  breast,  and  mightier  deeps, 

And  rushes  onward  to  the  main  ; 

While  down  the  swelling  current  glides 
Our  ship  of  state  before  the  blast, 
With  streamers  poured  from  every  mast, 

Her  thunders  roaring  from  her  sides. 

Lord  !  bid  the  frenzied  tempest  cease, 

Hang  out  thy  rainbow  on  the  sea  ! 

Laugh  round  her,  waves  !  in  silver  glee, 
And  speed  her  to  the  ports  of  peace  ! 


240 


THE  FIEND  UNBOUND. 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 
I. 

No  more,  with  glad  and  happy  cheer, 

And  smiling  face,  doth  Christmas  como, 
But  usher'd  in  with  sword  arid  spear, 

And  beat  of  the  barbarian  drum  ! 
No  more,  with  ivy-circled  brow, 

And  mossy  beard  all  snowy  white, 
He  conies  to  glad  the  children  now, 

With  sweet  and  innocent  delight. 

n. 

The  merry  dance,  the  lavish  feast, 

The  cheery  welcome,  all  are  o'er  : 
The  music  of  the  viol  ceased, 

The  gleesome  ring  around  the  floor. 
No  glad  communion  greets  the  hour, 

That  welcomes  in  a  Saviour's  birth, 
And  Christmas,  to  a  hostile  power, 

Yields  all  the  sway  that  made  its  mirth. 

in. 

The  Church,  like  some  deserted  bride, 
In  trembling,  at  the  Altar  waits, 


THE  FIEND    UNBOUND.  2-17 

While,  raging  fierce  on  every  side, 

The  foe  is  thundering  at  her  gates. 
No  ivy  green,  nor  glittering  leaves, 

Nor  crimson  berries,  deck  her  walls  : 
But  blood,  red  dripping  from  her  eaves, 

Along  the  sacred  pavement  falls. 


IV. 

Her  silver  bells  no  longer  chime 

In  summons  to  her  sacred  home  ; 
Nor  holy  song  at  matin  prime, 

Proclaims  the  God  within  the  dome. 
Nor  do  the  fireside's  happy  bands 

Assemble  fond,  with  greetings  dear, 
While  Patriarch  Christmas  spreads  his  hands 

To  glad  with  gifts  and  crown  with  cheer. 


v. 

In  place  of  that  beloved  form, 

Benignant,  bland,  and  blessing  all, 
Comes  one  begirt  with  fire  and  storm, 

The  raging  shell,  the  hissing  ball ! 
Type  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  no  more, 

Evoked  by  those  who  bear  His  name, 
THE  FIEND,  in  place  of  SAINT  of  yore, 

Now  hurls  around  Satanic  flame. 


248  WAR  fOETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

VI. 

In  hate, — evoked  by  kindred  lands, 

But  late  beslavering  with  caress, 
Lo,  Moloch,  dripping  crimson,  stands, 

And  curses  where  he  cannot  bless. 
He  wings  the  bolt  and  hurls  the  spear, 

A  demon  loosed,  that  rends  in  rage, 
Sends  havoc  through  the  homes  most  dear, 

And  butchers  youth  and  tramples  age  ! 


With  face  of  Fox — with  glee  that  grins, 

And  apish  arms,  with  fingers  claw'd, 
To  snatch  at  all  his  brother  wins, 

And  straight  secrete,  with  stealth  and  fraud  ;• 
Lo  !  Mammon,  kindred  Demon,  comes, 

And  lurks,  as  dreading  ill,  in  rear  ; 
He  blows  the  trumpet,  beats  the  drums, 

Inflames  the  torch,  and  sharps  the  spear  ! 

VIII. 

And  furious,  following  in  their  train, 
What  hosts  of  lesser  Demons  rise  ; 

Lust,  Malice,  Hunger,  Greed  and  Gain, 
Each  raging  for  its  special  prize. 

Too  base  for  freedom,  mean  for  toil, 
And  reckless  all  of  just  and  right, 


THE  FIEND   UNBOUND. 

They  rage  in  peaceful  homes  for  spoil, 
And  where  they  cannot  butcher,  blight. 


IX. 

A  Serpent  lie  from  every  mouth, 

Coils  outward  ever, — sworn  to  bless  ; 
Yet,  through  the  gardens  of  the  South, 

Still  spreading  evils  numberless, 
By  locust  swarms  the  fields  are  swept, 

By  frenzied  hands  the  dwelling  flames, 
And  virgin  beds,  where  Beauty  slept, 

Polluted  blush,  from  worst  of  shames. 


The  Dragon,  chained  for  thousand  years, 
Hath  burst  his  bonds  and  rages  free  ; — 

Yet,  patience,  brethren,  stay  your  fears  ; — 
Loosed  for  <c  a  little  season,"  *  he 


*  "  1.  And  I  saw  an  Angel  come  down  from  Heaven,  having  the  key 
of  the  bottomless  pit  and  a  great  chain  in  his  hand. 

"2.  And  he  laid  hold  on  the  Dragon,  that  Old  Serpent,  which  is  the 
Devil  and  Satan,  and  bound  him  a  thousand  years. 

"And  cast  him  into  the  bottomless  pit,  and  shut  him  up,  and  set  a 
seal  upon  him,  that  he  should  deceive  the  nations  no  more,  till  the 
thousand  years  should  be  fulfilled ;  and  after  that  he  must  be  loosed  a 
little  season" — Rev.  xx.,  v.  1-3. 


250  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Will  soon,  beneath  th'  Ithuriel  sword, 

Of  heavenly  judgment,  crushed  and  driven, 

Yield  to  the  vengeance  of  the  Lord, 

And  crouch  beneath  the  wrath  of  Heaven  ! 


XL 

"  A  little  season,"  and  the  Peace, 

That  now  is  foremost  in  your  prayers, 
Shall  crown  your  harvest  with  increase, 

And  bless  with  smiles  the  home  of  tears  ; 
Your  wounds  be  healed  ;  your  noble  sons, 

Unhurt,  unmutilated — free — 
Shall  limber  up  their  conquering  guns, 

In  triumph  grand  of  Liberty  ! 


XII. 

A  few  more  hours  of  mortal  strife, — 

Of  faith  and  patience,  working  still, 
In  struggle  for  the  immortal  life, 

With  all  their  soul,  and  strength,  and  will  ; 
And,  in  the  favor  of  the  Lord, 

And  powerful  grown  by  heavenly  aid, 
Your  roof  trees  all  shall  be  restored, 

And  ye  shall  triumph  in  their  shade. 


THE  UNKNO  WN  DEAD.  251 

THE   UNKNOWN   DEAD. 

BY    HENRY    TIMROD. 

THE  rain  is  plashing  on  my  sill, 

But  all  the  winds  of  Heaven  are  still ; 

And  so,  it  falls  with  that  dull  sound 

Which  thrills  us  in  the  churchyard  ground, 

When  the  first  spadeful  drops  like  lead 

Upon  the  coffin  of  the  dead. 

Beyond  my  streaming  window-pane, 

I  cannot  see  the  neighboring  vane, 

Yet  from  its  old  familiar  tower 

The  bell  comes,  muffled,  through  the  shower. 

What  strange  and  unsuspected  link 

Of  feeling  touched  has  made  me  think — 

While  with  a  vacant  soul  and  eye 

I  watch  that  gray  and  stony  sky — 

Of  nameless  graves  on  battle  plains, 

Washed  by  a  single  winter's  rains, 

Where,  some  beneath  Virginian  hills, 

And  some  by  green  Atlantic  rills, 

Some  by  the  waters  of  the  West, 

A  myriad  unknown  heroes  rest  ? 

Ah !  not  the  chiefs  who,  dying,  see 

Their  flags  in  front  of  victory, 

Or,  at  their  life-blood's  noblest  cost 

Pay  for  a  battle  nobly  lost, 

Claim  from  their  monumental  beds 


252  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  bitterest  tears  a  nation  sheds. 
Beneath  yon  lonely  mound — the  spot, 
By  all  save  some  fond  few  forgot — 
Lie  the  true  martyrs  of  the  fight, 
Which  strikes  for  freedom  and  for  right. 
Of  them,  their  patriot  zeal  and  pride, 
The  lofty  faith  that  with  them  died, 
No  grateful  page  shall  further  tell 
Than  that  so  many  bravely  fell ; 
And  we  can  only  dimly  guess 
What  worlds  of  all  this  world's  distress, 
What  utter  woe,  despair,  and  dearth, 
Their  fate  has  brought  to  many  a  hearth. 
Just  such  a  sky  as  this  should  weep 
Above  them,  always,  where  they  sleep  ; 
Yet,  haply,  at  this  very  hour, 
Their  graves  are  like  a  lover's  bower  ; 
And  Nature's  self,  with  eyes  unwet, 
Oblivious  of  the  crimson  debt 
To  which  she  owes  her  April  grace, 
Laughs  gayly  o'er  their  burial  place. 


ODE— "DO   YE   QUAIL?" 

BY    W.    GILMORE    SIMMS. 
I. 

Do  ye  quail  but  to  hear,  Carolinians, 

The  first  foot-tramp  of  Tyranny's  minions  ? 


ODE— "DO    YE  QUAIL?" 


253 


Have  ye  buckled  on  armor,  and  brandished  the  spear, 

But  to  shrink  with  the  trumpet's  first  peal  on  the  ear  ? 

Why  your  forts  now  embattled  on  headland  and  height, 

Your  sons  all  in  armor,  unless  for  the  fight  ? 

Did  ye  think  the  mere  show  of  your  guns  on  the  wall, 

And  your  shouts,  would  the  souls  of  the  heathen  appal  ? 

That  his  lusts  and  his  appetites,  greedy  as  Hell, 

Led  by  Mammon  and  Moloch,  would  sink  at  a  spell  ;— 

Nor  strive,  with  the  tiger's  own  thirst,  lest  the  flesh 

Should  be  torn  from  his  jaws,  while  yet  bleeding  afresh. 


ii. 


For  shame  !     To  the  breach,  Carolinians  !— 

To  the  death  for  your  sacred  dominions  ! 

Homes,  shrines,  and  your  cities  all  reeking  in  flame, 
Cry  aloud  to  your  souls,  in  their  sorrow  and  shame  ; 
"  Your  greybeards,  with  necks  in  the  halter— 

Your  virgins,  defiled  at  the  altar, 

In  the  loathsome  embrace  of  the  felon  and  slave, 
Touch  loathsomer  far  than  the  worm  of  the  grave  ! 
Ah  !  God  !  if  you  fail  in  this  moment  of  gloom  ! 
How  base  were  the  weakness,  how  horrid  the  doom  1 
With  the  fiends  in  your  streets  howling  pgeans, 
And  the  Beast  o'er  another  Orleans  1  • 


ia 


Do  ye  quail,  as  on  yon  little  islet 

They  have  planted  the  feet  that  defile  it  f 


254:  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Make  its  sands  pure  of  taint,  by  the  stroke  of  the  sword, 
And  by  torrents  of  blood  in  red  sacrifice  pour'd  ! 
Doubts  are  Traitors,  if  once  they  persuade  you  to  fear, 
That  the  foe,  in  his  foothold,  is  safe  from  your  spear  ! 
When  the  foot  of  pollution  is  set  on  your  shores, 
What  sinew  and  soul  should  be  stronger  than  yours  ? 
By  the  fame — by  the  shame — of  your  sires, 
Set  on,  though  each  freeman  expires  ; 
Better  fall,  grappling  fast  with  the  foe,  to  their  graves, 
Than  groan  in  your  fetters,  the  slaves  of  your  slaves 

IV. 

The  voice  of  your  loud  exultation 
Hath  rung,  like  a  trump,  through  the  nation, 
How  loudly,  how  proudly,  of  deeds  to  be  done, 
The  blood  of  the  sire  in  the  veins  of  the  son  ! 
Old  Moultrie  and  Sumter  still  keep  at  your  gates, 
And  the  foe  in  his  foothold  as  patiently  waits. 
He  asks,  with  a  taunt,  by  your  patience  made  bold, 
If  the  hot  spur  of  Percy  grows  suddenly  cold — 
Makes  merry  with  boasts  of  your  city  his  own, 
And  the  Chivalry  fled,  ere  his  trumpet  is  blown  ; 
Upon  them,  0  sons  of  the  mighty  of  yore, 
And  fatten  the  sands  with  their  Sodomite  gore  I 

T. 

Where's  the  dastard  that  cowers  and  falters 
Tn  the  sight  of  his  hearthstones  and  altars  ? 


ODE—"OUE   CITY  BY  THE  SEA:1  955 

With  the  faith  of  the  free  in  the  God  of  the  brave, 

Go  forth  ;  ye  are  mighty  to  conquer  and  save  ! 

By  the  blue  Heaven  shining  above  ye, 

By  the  pure-hearted  thousands  that  love  ye, 

Ye  are  armed  with  a  might  to  prevail  in  the  fight, 

And  an  segis  to  shield  and  a  weapon  to  smite  ! 

Then  fail  not,  and  quail  not ;  the  foe  shall  prevail  not : 

With  the  faith  and  the  will,  ye  shall  conquer  him  still. 

To  the  knife— with  the  knife,  Carolinians, 

For  your  homes,  and  your  sacred  dominions. 


ODE—"  OUR  CITY  BY  THE  SEA. 

BY   TV.  GILMORE    SIMMS. 


I. 


OUR  city  by  the  sea, 

As  the  rebel  city  known, 
With  a  soul  and  spirit  free 

As  the  waves  that  make  her  zone, 
Stands  in  wait  for  the  fate 
From  the  angry  arm  of  hate  ; 
But  she  nothing  fears  the  terror  of  his  blow  ; 
She  hath  garrisoned  her  walls, 
And  for  every  son  that  falls, 
She  will  spread  a  thousand  palls 
For  the  foe  ! 


256          WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

II. 

Old  Moultrie  at  her  gate, 

Clad  in  arms  and  ancient  fame, 

Grimly  watching,  stands  elate 
To  deliver  bolt  and  flame  ! 

Brave  the  band,  at  command, 

To  illumine  sea  and  land 
With  a  glory  that  shall  honor  days  of  yore  ; 

And,  as  racers  for  their  goals, 

A  thousand  fiery  souls, 

While  the  drum  of  battle  rolls, 
Line  the  shore. 

in. 

Lo  !   rising  at  his  side, 

As  if  emulous  to  share 
His  old  historic  pride, 

The  vast  form  of  Sumter  there  I 
Girt  by  waves,  which  he  braves 
Though  the  equinoctial  raves, 

As  the  mountain  braves  the  lightning  on  his  steep  ; 
And,  like  tigers  crouching  round, 
Are  the  tribute  forts  that  bound 
All  the  consecrated  ground, 
By  the  deep  ! 

IV. 

It  was  calm,  the  April  noon, 
When,  in  iron-castled  towers, 


ODE— "OUR   CITY  BY  THE  SEA."  257 

Our  haughty  foe  came  on, 

With  his  aggregated  powers  ; 
All  his  might  'gainst  the  right, 
Now  embattled  for  the  fight, 

With  Hell's  hate  and  venom  working  in  his  heart ; 
A  vast  and  dread  array, 
Glooming  black  upon  the  day, 
HelPs  passions  all  in  play, 
With  Hell's  art. 


v. 


But  they  trouble  not  the  souls 

Of  our  Carolina  host,* 
And  the  drum  of  battle  rolls, 

While  each  hero  seeks  his  post ; 
Firm,  though  few,  sworn  to  do, 
Their  old  city  full  in  view, 
The  brave  city  of  their  sires  and  their  dead  ; 
There  each  freeman  had  his  brood, 
All  the  dear  ones  of  his  blood, 
And  he  knew  they  watching  stood, 
In  their  dread  ! 


VI. 

To  the  bare  embattled  height, 

Then  our  gallant  colonel  sprung — 

*  The  battle  of  Charleston  Harbor,  April  7,  1863,  was  fought  by 
South  Carolina  troops  exclusively. 

12 


258  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  Bid  them  welcome  to  the  fight," 

Were  the  accents  of  his  tongue — 
"  Music  !  band,  pour  out — grand — 

The  free  song  of  Dixie  Land  ! 
Let  it  tell  them  we  are  joyful  that  they  come  I 
Bid  them  welcome,  drum  and  flute, 
Nor  be  your  cannon  mute, 
Give  them  chivalrous  salute — 
To  their  doom  !"* 


VII. 

Out  spoke  an  eager  gun, 

From  the  walls  of  Moultrie  then  ; 

And  through  clouds  of  sulph'rous  dun, 
Rose  a  shout  of  thousand  men, 

As  the  shot,  hissing  hot, 

Goes  in  lightning  to  the  spot — 
Goes  crashing  wild  through  timber  and  through  mail  ; 

Then  roared  the  storm  from  all, 

Moultrie's  ports  and  Sumter's  wall — 

Bursting  bomb  and  driving  ball — 
Hell  in  hail  I 

*  As  the  iron-clads  approached  Fort  Sumter  in  line  of  battle,  Col. 
Alfred  Rhett,  commandant  of  the  post,  mounting  the  parapet,  where 
he  remained,  ordered  the  band  to  strike  up  the  national  air  of 
"  Dixie  ;"  and  at  the  same  time,  in  addition  to  the  Confederate  flag, 
the  State  and  regimental  flags  were  flung  out  at  different  salients  of 
the  fort,  and  saluted  with  thirteen  guns. 


OVE—«OVR   CITY  BY  THE  SEA."  259 


VIII. 


Full  a  hundred  cannon  roared 

The  dread  welcome  to  the  foe, 
And  his  felon  spirit  cowered, 

As  he  crouched  beneath  the  blow  ! 
As  each  side  opened  wide 
To  the  iron  and  the  tide, 
He  lost  his  faith  in  armor  and  in  art  ; 
And,  with  the  loss  of  faith, 
Came  the  dread  of  wounds  and  scath- 
And  the  felon  fear  of  death 
Wrung  his  heart ! 


IX. 


Quenched  then  his  foul  desires  ; 

In  his  mortal  pain  and  fear, 
How  feeble  grew  his  fires, 

How  stayed  his  fell  career  ! 
How  each  keel,  made  to  reel 
'Neath  our  thunder,  seems  to  kneel, 
Their   turrets    staggering   wildly,    to   and   fro,    blind    and 

lame  ; 

Ironsides  and  iron  roof, 
Held  no  longer  bullet-proof, 
Steal  away,  shrink  aloof, 
In  their  shame  1 


260  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


But  our  lightnings  follow  fast, 

With  a  vengeance  sharp  and  hot ; 
Our  bolts  are  on  the  blast, 

And  they  rive  with  shell  and  shot  1 
Huge  the  form  which  they  warm 
With  the  hot  breath  of  the  storm  ; 
Dread    the    crash    which   follows    as    each    Titan    mass    is 

struck — 

They  shiver  as  they  fly, 
While  their  leader,  drifting  nigh, 
Sinks,  choking  with  the  cry — 
11  Keokuk  !" 


XI. 


To  the  brave  old  city,  joy  1 

For  that  the  hostile  race, 
Commissioned  to  destroy, 

Hath  fled  in  sore  disgrace  ! 
That  our  sons,  at  their  guns, 
Have  beat  back  the  modern  Huns — 
Have  maintained  their  household  fanes  and  their  fires  ; 
And  free  from  taint  and  scath, 
Have  kept  the  fame  and  faith 
(And  will  keep,  through  blood  and  death) 
Of  their  sires  ! 


THE  LONE  SENTRY.  261 


XII. 


To  the  Lord  of  Hosts  the  glory, 

For  His  the  arm  and  might, 
That  have  writ  for  us  the  story, 

And  have  borne  us  through  the  fight ! 
His  our  shield  in  that  field — 
Voice  that  bade  us  never  yield  ; 
Oh  !  had  he  not  been  with  us  through  the  terrors  of  that 

day? 

His  strength  hath  made  us  strong, 
Cheered  the  right  and  crushed  the  wrong, 
To  His  temple  let  us  throng — 
PRAISE  AND  PRAY  ! 


THE  LONE  SENTRY. 

BY   JAMES    R.    RANDALL. 

Previous  to  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  when  the  troops  under  Stonewall 
Jackson  had  made  a  forced  inarch,  on  halting  at  night  they  fell  on  the  ground 
exhausted  and  faint.  The  hour  arrived  for  setting  the  watch  for  the  night. 
The  officer  of  the  day  went  to  the  general's  tent,  and  said  : 

"  General,  the  men  are  all  wearied,  and  there  is  not  one  but  is  asleep. 
Shall  I  wake  them  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  noble  Jackson ;  "  let  them  sleep,  and  I  will  watch  the  camp 
to-night." 

And  all  night  long  he  rode  round  that  lonely  camp,  the  one  lone  sentinel 
for  that  brave,  but  weary  and  silent  body  of  Virginia  heroes.  And  when 
glorious  morning  broke,  the  soldiers  awoke  fresh  and  ready  for  action,  all 
unconscious  of  the  noble  vigils  kept  over  their  slumbers. 


262  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

'TWAS  in  the  dying  of  the  day, 

The  darkness  grew  so  still  ; 
The  drowsy  pipe  of  evening  birds 

Was  hushed  upon  the  hill  ; 
Athwart  the  shadows  of  the  vale 

Slumbered  the  men  of  might, 
And  one  lone  sentry  paced  his  rounds, 

To  watch  the  camp  that  night. 


A  grave  and  solemn  man  was  he, 

With  deep  and  sombre  brow  ; 
The  dreamful  eyes  seemed  hoarding  up 

Some  unaccomplished  vow. 
The  wistful  glance  peered  o'er  the  plains 

Beneath  the  starry  light — 
And  with  the  murmured  name  of  God, 

He  watched  the  camp  that  night. 


The  Future  opened  unto  him 

Its  grand  and  awful  scroll  : 
Manassas  and  the  Valley  march 

Came  heaving  o'er  his  soul — 
Richmond  and  Sharpsburg  thundered  by 

With  that  tremendous  fight 
Which  gave  him  to  the  angel  hosts 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 


TO  MY  SOLDIER  BROTHER. 

We  mourn  for  him  who  died  for  us, 

With  one  resistless  moan  ; 
While  up  the  Valley  of  the  Lord 

He  marches  to  the  Throne  ! 
He  kept  the  faith  of  men  and  saints 

Sublime,  and  pure,  and  bright — 
He  sleeps — and  all  is  well  with  him 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

Brothers  !  the  Midnight  of  the  Cause 

Is  shrouded  in  our  fate  ; 
The  demon  Goths  pollute  our  halls 

With  fire,  and  lust,  and  hate. 
Be  strong— be  valiant— be  assured — 

Strike  home  for  Heaven  and  Right ! 
The  soul  of  Jackson  stalks  abroad, 

And  guards  the  camp  to-night ! 


263 


TO  MY  SOLDIER  BROTHER. 

BY    SALLIE    E.    BALLARD,  OF   TEXAS. 

WHEN  softly  gathering  shades  of  ev'n 
Creep  o'er  the  prairies  broad  and  green, 
And  countless  stars  bespangle  heav'n, 
And  fringe  the  clouds  with  silv'ry  sheen, 
My  fondest  sigh  to  thee  is  giv'n, 


264  IVAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

My  lonely  warid'ring1  soldier  boy  ; 

And  thoughts  of  thee 

Steal  over  me 
Like  ev'ning  shades,  my  soldier  boy. 


My  brother,  though  thou'rt  far  away, 
And  dangers  hurtle  round  thy  path, 
And  battle  lightnings  o'er  thee  play, 
And  thunders  peal  in  awful  wrath, 
Think,  whilst  thou'rt  in  the  hot  affray, 
Thy  sister  prays  for  thee,  my  boy. 

If  fondest  prayer 

Can  shield  thee  there 
Sweet  angels  guard  my  soldier  boy. 


Thy  proud  young  heart  is  beating  high 
To  clash  of  arms  and  cannons'  roar  ; 
That  firm-set  lip  and  flashing  eye 
Tell  how  thy  heart  is  brimming  o'er. 
Be  free  and  live,  be  free  or  die  ; 
Be  that  thy  motto  now,  my  boy  ; 

And  though  thy  name's 

Unknown  to  fame's, 
'Tis  graven  on  my  heart,  my  boy. 


SEA-WEEDS.  2Gi) 


SEA-WEEDS. 

WBITTEN   IN   EXILE. 
BY    ANNIE    CHAMBERS    KETCHUM. 

FRIEND  of  the  thoughtful  mind  and  gentle  heart  ! 

Beneath  the  citron-tree — 
Deep  calling  to  my  soul's  profounder  deep — 

I  hear  the  Mexique  Sea. 

While  through  the  night  rides  in  the  spectral  surf 

Along  the  spectral  sands, 
And  all  the  air  vibrates,  as  if  from  harps 

Touched  by  phantasmal  hands. 

Bright  in  the  moon  the  red  pomegranate  flowers 

Lean  to  the  Yucca's  bells, 
While  with  her  chrism  of  dew,  sad  Midnight  fills 

The  milk-white  asphodels. 

Watching  all  night — as  I  have  done  before — 

I  count  the  stars  that  set, 
Each  writing  on  my  soul  some  memory  deep 

Of  Pleasure  or  Regret  ; 

Till,  wild  with  heart-break,  toward  the  East  I  turn, 
Waiting  for  dawn  of  day  ;  — 
12* 


266  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  chanting  sea,  and  asphodel  and  star 
Are  faded,  all,  away. 

Only  within  my  trembling,  trembling  hands — 

Brought  unto  me  by  thee — 
I  clasp  these  beautiful  and  fragile  things, 

Bright  sea-weeds  from  the  sea, 

Fair  bloom  the  flowers  beneath  these  Northern  skies, 

Pure  shine  the  stars  by  night, 
And  grandly  sing  the  grand  Atlantic  waves 

In  thunder-throated  might  ; 

But,  as  the  sea-shell  in  her  chambers  keeps 

The  murmur  of  the  sea, 
So  the  deep-echoing  memories  of  my  home 

Will  not  depart  from  me. 

Prone  on  the  page  they  lie,  these  gentle  things  I 

As  I  have  seen  them  cast 
Like  a  drowned  woman's  hair,  along  the  beach, 

When  storms  were  over-past ; 

Prone,  like  mine  own  affections,  cast  ashore 

In  Battle's  storm  and  blight ; 
Would  they  had  died,  like  sea-weeds  !    Pray  forgive  me, 

But  I  must  weep  to-night. 


THE  SALKEHATQHIE.  267 


Tell  me  again,  of  Summer  fields  made  fair 

By  Spring's  precursing  plough  ; 
Of  joyful  reapers,  gathering  tear-sown  harvests — 

Talk  to  me, — will  you  ? — now  I 


THE  SALKEHATCHIE. 

BY    EMILY   J.   MOORE. 

Written  when  a  garrison,  at  or  near  Salkehatchie  Bridge,  were  threaten 
ing  a  raid  up  in  the  Fork  of  Big  and  Little  Salkehatchie. 

THE  crystal  streams,  the  pearly  streams, 

The  streams  in  sunbeams  flashing, 
The  murm'ring  streams,  the  gentle  streams, 
The  streams  down  mountains  dashing, 
Have  been  the  theme 
Of  poets'  dream, 
And,  in  wild  witching  story, 
Have  been  renowned  for  love's  fond  scenes, 
Or  some  great  deed  of  glory. 


The  Rhine,  the  Tiber,  Ayr,  and  Tweed, 

The  Arno,  silver-flowing, 
The  Hudson,  Charles,  Potomac,  Dan, 

With  poesy  are  glowing  ; 


POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


But  I  would  praise 

In  artless  lays, 

A  stream  which  well  may  match  ye, 
Though  dark  its  waters  glide  along  - 
The  swampy  Salkehatchie. 


Tis  not  the  beauty  of  its  stream, 

Which  makes  it  so  deserving 
Of  honor  at  the  Muses'  hands,' 
But  'tis  the  use  it's  serving, 
And  'gainst  a  raid, 
We  hope  its  aid 
Will  ever  prove  efficient, 
Its  fords  remain  still  overflowed, 
In  water  ne'er  deficient. 


If  Vandal  bands  are  held  in  check, 

Their  crossing  thus  prevented, 
And  we  are  spared  the  ravage  wild 
Their  malice  has  invented, 
Then  we  may  well 
In  numbers  tell 

No  other  stream  can  match  ye, 
And  grateful  we  shall  ever  be 
To  swampy  Salkehatchie. 


THE  BROKEN  MUG.  9.69 


THE  BROKEN  MUG. 

ODE  (SO-CALLED)  ON  A  LATE  MELANCHOLY  ACCIDENT  IN  THE  SHKNANDOAH 
VALLEY  (SO-CALLED.) 

IOHN    ESTEN    COOKE. 

MY  mug  is  broken,  my  heart  is  sad  ! 

What  woes  can  fate  still  hold  in  store  ! 
The  friend  I  cherished  a  thousand  days 

Is  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  floor  ! 

Is  shattered  and  to  Limbo  gone, 
I'll  see  my  Mug  no  more  1 


Relic  it  was  of  joyous  hours 

Whose  golden  memories  still  allure — 
When  coifee  made  of  rye  we  drank, 

And  gray  was  all  the  dress  we  wore  ! 

When  we  were  paid  some  cents  a  month, 
But  never  asked  for  more  ! 


In  marches  long,  by  day  and  night, 
In  raids,  hot  charges,  shocks  of  war, 

Strapped  on  the  saddle  at  my  back 
This  faithful  comrade  still  I  bore— 
This  old  companion,  true  and  tried, 
Fll  never  carry  more  I 


270  WAR  POETRY  OF  THJL  SOUTH. 

From  the  Rapid  an  to  Gettysburg — 

"  Hard  bread"  behind,  "  sour  krout"  before — 

This  friend  went  with  the  cavalry 
And  heard  the  jarring  cannon  roar 
In  front  of  Cemetery  Hill — 

Good  heavens  I  how  they  did  roar  ! 

Then  back  again,  the  foe  behind, 
Back  to  the  "  Old  Virginia  shore" — 

Some  dead  and  wounded  left — some  holes 
In  flags,  the  sullen  gray  backs  bore  ; 
This  mug  had  made  the  great  campaign, 
And  we'd  have  gone  once  more  ! 

Alas  !  we  never  went  again  ! 

The  red  cross  banner,  slow  but  sure, 
"  Fell  back" — we  bade  to  sour  krout 
(Like  the  lover  of  Lenore) 
A  long,  sad,  lingering  farewell — 
To  taste  its  joys  no  more. 

But  still  we  fought,  and  ate  hard  bread, 

Or  starved — good  friend,  our  woes  deplore  I 

And  still  this  faithful  friend  remained — 
Riding  behind  me  as  before — 
The  friend  on  march,  in  bivouac, 
When  others  were  no  more. 


THE  BROKEN  MUG,  271 

How  oft  we  drove  the  horsemen  blue 

In  Summer  bright  or  Winter  frore  ! 
How  oft  before  the  Southern  charge 

Through  field  and  wood  the  blue-birds  tore  ! 

I'm  "  harmonized,"  but  long  to  hear 
The  bugles  ring  once  more. 

Oh  yes  !  we're  all  "  fraternal"  now, 

Purged  of  our  sins,  we're  clean  and  pure, 

Congress  will  "reconstruct"  us  soon — 
But  no  gray  people  on  that  floor  1 
Pm  harmonized — "  so-called"— but  long 
To  see  those  times  once  more  1 


Gay  days  !  the  sun  was  brighter  then, 
And  we  were  happy,  though  so  poor  ! 

That  past  comes  back  as  I  behold 
My  shattered  friend  upon  the  floor, 
My  splintered,  useless,  ruined  mug, 
From  which  I'll  drink  no  more. 

How  many  lips  I'll  love  for  aye, 
While  heart  and  memory  endure, 

Have  touched  this  broken  cup  and  laughed • 

How  they  did  laugh  ! — in  days  of  yore  I 
Those  days  we'd  call  "  a  beauteous  dream, 
If  they  had  been  no  more  !" 


272  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Dear  comrades,  dead  this  many  a  day, 
I  saw  you  weltering  in  your  gore, 

After  those  days,  amid  the  pines 
On  the  Rappahannock  shore  ! 
When  the  joy  of  life  was  much  to  me 
But  your  warm  hearts  were  more  ! 


Yours  was  the  grand  heroic  nerve 
That  laughs  amid  the  storm  of  war — 

Souls  that  "  loved  much"  your  native  land, 
Who  fought  and  died  therefor  ! 
You  gave  your  youth,  your  brains,  your  arms, 
Your  blood — you  had  no  more  ! 

You  lived  and  died  true  to  your  flag  ! 

And  now  your  wounds  are  healed — but  sore 
Are  many  hearts  that  think  of  you 

Where  you  have  "  gone  before.'7 

Peace,  comrade  !  God  bound  up  those  forms, 
They  are  "  whole"  forevermore  ! 

Those  lips  this  broken  vessel  touched, 
His,  too  ! — the  man's  we  all  adore — 

That  cavalier  of  cavaliers, 

Whose  voice  will  ring  no  more — 
Whose  plume  will  float  amid  the  storm 
Of  battle  never  more  ! 


THE  BROKEN  MUG.  273 

Not  on  this  idle  page  I  write 

That  name  of  names,  shrined  in  the  core 
Of  every  heart ! — peace  !  foolish  pen, 

Hush  !   words  so  cold  and  poor  ! 

His  sword  is  rust  ;  the  blue  eyes  dust, 
His  bugle  sounds  no  more  ! 


Never  was  cavalier  like  ours  ! 
Not  Rupert  in  the  years  before  ! 

And  when  his  stern,  hard  work  was  done, 
His  griefs,  joys,  battles  o'er — 
His  mighty  spirit  rode  the  storm, 
And  led  his  men  once  more  ! 


He  lies  beneath  his  native  sod, 

Where  violets  spring,  or  frost  is  hoar  : 

He  recks  not — charging  squadrons  watch 
His  raven  plume  no  more  ! 
That  smile  we'll  see,  that  voice  we'll  hear, 
That  hand  we'll  touch  no  more  ! 


My  foolish  mirth  is  quenched  in  tears  : 
Poor  fragments  strewed  upon  the  floor, 

Ye  are  the  types  of  nobler  things 
That  find  their  use  no  more — 
Things  glorious  once,  now  trodden  down — 
That  makes  us  smile  no  more  ! 


274  WAR  ^OETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Of  courage,  pride,  high  hopes,  stout  hearts — 
Hard,  stubborn  nerve,  devotion  pure, 

Beating  his  wings  against  the  bars, 
The  prisoned  eagle  tried  to  soar  ! 

Outmatched,  overwhelmed,  we  struggled  still — 
Bread  failed — we  fought  no  more  I 


Lies  in  the  dust  the  shattered  staff 
That  bore  aloft  on  sea  and  shore, 

That  blazing  flag,  amid  the  storm  ! 
And  none  are  now  so  poor, 
So  poor  to  do  it  reverence, 
Now  when  it  flames  no  more  I 


But  it  is  glorious  in  the  dust, 

Sacred  till  Time  shall  be  no  more : 

Spare  it,  fierce  editors  !  your  scorn — 
The  dread  "  Rebellion's"  o'er  I 
Furl  the  great  flag — hide  cross  and  star, 
Thrust  into  darkness  star  and  bar, 
But  look  !  across  the  ages  far 
It  flames  for  evermore  I 


CAROLINA.  275 

CAROLINA. 

BY  ANNA  PEYRE  DINNIES. 

IN  the  hour  of  thy  glory, 

When  thy  name  was  far  renowned, 
When  Sumter's  glowing  story 

Thy  bright  escutcheon  crowned  ; 
Oh,  noble  Carolina  !  how  proud  a  claim  was  mine, 
That  through  homage  and  through  duty,  and  birthright,  I 
was  thine. 

Exulting  as  I  heard  thee, 
Of  every  lip  the  theme, 
Prophetic  visions  stirred  me, 
In  a  hope-illumined  dream  : 

A  dream  of  dauntless  valor,  of  battles  fought  and  won, 
Where  each  field  was  but  a  triumph — a  hero  every  son. 

And  now,  when  clouds  arise, 

And  shadows  round  thee  fall  ; 
I  lift  to  heaven  my  eyes, 

Those  visions  to  recall  ; 

For  I  cannot  dream  that  darkness  will  rest  upon  thee  long, 
Oh,  lordly  Carolina !  with  thine  arms  and  hearts  so  strong. 

Thy  serried  ranks  of  pine, 
Thy  live-oaks  spreading  wide, 


276  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Beneath  the  sunbeams  shine, 
In  fadeless  robes  of  pride  ; 
Thus  marshalled  on  their  native  soil  their  gallant  sons  stand 

forth, 
As  changeless  as  thy  forests  green,  defiant  of  the  North. 

The  deeds  of  other  days, 
Enacted  by  their  sires, 
Themes  long  of  love  and  praise, 

Have  wakened  high  desires 

In  every  heart  that  beats  within  thy  proud  domain, 
To  cherish  their  remembrance,  and  live  those  scenes  again. 

Each  heart  the  home  of  daring, 
Each  hand  the  foe  of  wrong, 
They'll  meet  with  haughty  bearing, 

The  war-ship's  thunder  song  ; 

And  though  the  base  invader  pollute  thy  sacred  shore, 
They'll  greet  him  in  their  prowess  as  their  fathers  did  of 
yore. 

His  feet  may  press  their  soil, 

Or  his  numbers  bear  them  down, 
In  his  vandal  raid  for  spoil, 
His  sordid  soul  to  crown  ; 

But  his  triumph  will  be  fleeting,  for  the  hour  is  drawing  near, 
When  the  war-cry  of  thy  cavaliers  shall  strike  his  startled 
ear. 


OUR  MARTYRS.  277 

A  fearful  time  shall  come, 

When  thy  gathering-  bands  unite, 
And  the  larum-sounding  drum 

Calls  to  struggle  for  the  Right ; 
"Pro  aris  etprofocis,"  from  rank  to  rank  shall  fly, 
As  they  meet  the  cruel  foeman,  to  conquer  or  to  die. 


Oh,  then  a  tale  of  glory 

Shall  yet  again  be  thine, 
And  the  record  of  thy  story 

The  Laurel  shall  entwine  ; 

Oh,  noble  Carolina  !  oh,  proud  and  lordly  State  ! 
Heroic  deeds  shall  crown  thee,  and  the  Nations  own  thoe 
great. 


OUR   MARTYRS. 

BY    PAUL    H.  HAYNE. 

I  AM  sitting  lone  and  weary 

On  the  hearth  of  my  darkened  room, 
And  the  low  wind's  'miserere 

Makes  sadder  the  midnight  gloorn  ; 
There's  a  terror  that's  nameless  nigh  me — 

There's  a  phantom  spell  in  the  air, 
And  methinks  that  the  dead  glide  by  me, 

And  the  breath  of  the  grave's  in  my  hair  ! 


278          WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

'Tis  a  vision  of  ghastly  faces, 

All  pallid,  and  worn  with  pain, 
Where  the  splendor  of  manhood's  graces 

Give  place  to  a  gory  stain  ; 
In  a  wild  and  weird  procession 

They  sweep  by  my  startled  eyes, 
And  stern  with  their  fate's  fruition, 

Seem  melting  in  blood-red  skies. 


Have  they  come  from  the  shores  supernal, 

Have  they  passed  from  the  spirit's  goal, 
'Neath  the  veil  of  the  life  eternal, 

To  dawn  on  my  shrinking  soul  ? 
Have  they  turned  from  the  choiring  angels, 

Aghast  at  the  woe  and  dearth 
That  war,  with  his  dark  evangels, 

Hath  wrought  in  the  loved  of  earth  ? 


Vain  dream  1  'mid  the  far-off  mountains 

They  lie,  where  the  dew-mists  weep, 
And  the  murmur  of  mournful  fountains 

Breaks  over  their  painful  sleep  ; 
On  the  breast  of  the  lonely  meadows, 

Safe,  safe  from  the  despot's  will, 
They  rest  in  the  star-lit  shadows, 

And  their  brows  are  white  and  still  ! 


OUR  MARTYRS. 

Alas  !  for  the  martyred  heroes 

Cut  down  at  their  golden  prime, 
In  a  strife  with  the  brutal  Neroes, 

Who  blacken  the  path  of  Time  ! 
For  them  is  the  voice  of  wailing, 

And  the  sweet  blush-rose  departs 
From  the  cheeks  of  the  maidens,  paling 

O'er  the  wreck  of  their  broken  hearts 


And  alas  I  for  the  vanished  glory 

Of  a  thousand  household  spells  ! 
And  alas  I  for  the  tearful  story 

Of  the  spirit's  fond  farewells  ! 
By  the  flood,  on  the  field,  in  the  forest, 

Our  bravest  have  yielded  breath, 
Uut  the  shafts  that  have  smitten  sorest, 

Were  launched  by  a  viewless  death  ! 


Oh,  Thou,  that  hast  charms  of  healing, 

Descend  on  a  widowed  land, 
And  bind  o'er  the  wounds  of  feeling 

The  balms  of  Thy  mystic  hand  I 
Till  the  hearts  that  lament  and  languish, 

Renewed  by  the  touch  divine, 
From  the  depths  of  a  mortal  anguish 

May  rise  to  the  calm  of  Thine  ! 


279 


280  WAR   POETRY  Of   THE  SOUTH. 

CLEBURNE. 

BY    M.    A.    JENNINGS,    OF    ALABAMA. 

"  Another  star  now  shines  on  high." 

ANOTHER  ray  of  light  hath  fled,  another  Southern  brave 
Hath  fallen  in  his   country's  cause  and   found  a  laurelled 

grave — 
Hath  fallen,  but  his  deathless  name  shall  live  when  stars 

shall  set, 
For,  noble  Cleburne,  thou  art  one  this  world  will  ne'er  forget. 

'Tis  true  thy  warm  heart  beats  no  more,  that  on  thy  noble 

head 

Azrael  placed  his  icy  hand,  and  thou  art  with  the  dead  ; 
The  glancing  of  thine  eyes  are  dim  ;  no  more  will  they  be 

bright 
Until  they  ope  in  Paradise,  with  clearer,  heavenlier  tight. 

No  battle  news  disturbs  thy  rest  upon  the  sun-bright  shore, 
No  clarion  voice  awakens  thee  on  earth  to  wrestle  more, 
No  tramping  steed,  no  wary  foe  bids  thee  awake,  arise, 
For  thou  art  in  the  angel  world,  beyond  the  starry  skies 

Brave    Cleburne,    dream    in    thy    low   bed,  with   pulseless, 

deadened  heart ; 
Cairn,  calm  and  sweet,  0  warrior  rest !  thou  well  hast  borne 

thy  part, 


THE  TEXAN  MARSEILLAISE.  Ogl 

And  now  a  glory  wreath  for  thee  the  angels  singing  twine, 
A  glory  wreath,  riot  of  the  earth,  but  made  by  hands  divine 

A  long  farewell — we  give  thee  up,  with  all  thy  bright  re 
nown  ; 

A  chieftain  here  on  earth  is  lost,  in  heaven  an  angel  found. 

Above  thy  grave  a  wail  is  heard — a  nation  mourns  her 
dead  ; 

A  nobler  for  the  South  ne'er  died,  a  braver  never  bled. 

A  last  farewell — how  can  we  speak  the  bitter  word  fare 
well  ! 

The  anguish  of  our  bleeding  hearts  vain  words  may  never 
tell. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  to  God  we  give  our  chieftain  in  his 
might ; 

And  weeping,  feel  he  lives  on  high,  where  comes  no  sor 
row's  night. 
SELMA  DESPATCH,  1864. 


THE   TEXAN   MARSEILLAISE. 

BY   JAMES    HAINES,  OF   TEXAS. 

SONS  of  the  South,  arouse  to  battle  ! 
Gird  on  your  armor  for  the  fight ! 
The  Northern  Thugs  with  dread  "  War's  rattle,'' 

Pour  on  each  vale,  and  glen,  and  height  ; 
13 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Meet  them  as  Ocean  meets  in  madness 
The  frail  bark  on  the  rocky  shore, 
When  crested  billows  foam  and  roar, 
And  the  wrecked  crew  go  down  in  sadness. 
Arm  !  Arm  !  ye  Southern  braves  ! 
Scatter  yon  Vandal  hordes  I 
Despots  and  bandits,  fitting  food 
For  vultures  and  your  swords. 

Shall  dastard  tyrants  march  their  legions 
To  crush  the  land  of  Jackson — Lee  ? 

Shall  freedom  fly  to  other  regions, 

And  sons  of  Yorktown  bend  the  knee  ? 

Or  shall  their  "  footprints'  base  pollution" 
Of  Southern  soil,  in  blood  be  purged, 
And  every  flying  slave  be  scourged 

Back  to  his  snows  in  wild  confusion  ? 
Arm  !  Arm  !  &c. 

Vile  despots,  with  their  minions  knavish, 
Would  drag  us  back  to  their  embrace  ; 

Will  freemen  brook  a  chain  so  slavish  ? 
Will  brave  men  take  so  low  a  place  ? 

0,  Heaven  !  for  words — the  loathing,  scorning 
We  feel  for  such  a  Union's  bands  : 
To  paint  with  more  than  mortal  hands, 

And  sound  our  loudest  notes  of  warning. 
Arm  !  Arm  1  &c. 


O   TEMP  OR  A!   0  MORES!  283 

What  !  union  with  a  race  ignoring 

The  charter  of  our  nation's  birth  ! 

Union  with  bastard  slaves  adoring 

The  fiend  that  chains  them  to  the  earth  1 

No  !  we  reply  in  tones  of  thunder — 

No  !  our  staunch  hills  fling  back  the  sound — 

No  !  our  hoarse  cannon  echo  round — 

No  !  evermore  remain  asunder  ! 

Arm  !  Arm  !  &c. 

SOUTHERN  CONFEDERACY. 


0,  TEMPORA  !  0,  MORES  ! 

BY   JOHN   DICKSON    BRUNS,  M.  D. 

"  GREAT  PAN  is  dead  I"  so  cried  an  airy  tongue 
To  one  who,  drifting  down  Calabria's  shore, 

Heard  the  last  knell,  in  starry  midnight  rung, 
Of  the  old  Oracles,  dumb  for  evermore. 

A  low  wail  ran  along  the  shuddering  deep, 
And  as,  far  off,  its  flaming  accents  died, 

The  awe-struck  sailors,  startled  from  their  sleep, 
Gazed,  called  aloud  :  no  answering  voice  replied 

Nor  ever  will — the  angry  Gods  have  fled, 

Closed  are  the  temples,  mute  are  all  the  shrines, 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


The  fires  are  quenched,  Dodona's  growth  is  dead, 
The  Sibyl's  leaves  are  scattered  to  the  winds. 

No  mystic  sentence  will  they  bear  again, 

Which,  sagely  spelled,  might  ward  a  nation's  doom  ; 
Hut  we  have  left  us  still  some  god-like  men, 

And  some  great  voices  pleading  from  the  tomb. 

If  we  would  heed  them,  they  might  save  us  yet, 
Call  up  some  gleams  of  manhood  in  our  breasts, 

Truth,  valor,  justice,  teach  us  to  forget 
In  a  grand  cause  our  selfish  interests. 

But  we  have  fallen  on  evil  times  indeed, 

When  public  faith  is  but  the  common  shame, 

And  private  morals  held  an  idiot's  creed, 
And  old-world  honesty  an  empty  name. 

And  lust,  and  greed,  and  gain  are  all  our  arts  ! 

The  simple  lessons  which  our  father's  taught 
Are  scorned  and  jeered  at  ;  in  our  sordid  marts 

We  sell  the  faith  for  which  they  toiled  and  fought. 

Each  jostling  each  in  the  mad  strife  for  gold, 
The  weaker  trampled  by  the  unrecking  throng 

Friends,  honor,  country  lost,  betrayed,  or  sold, 
And  lying  blasphemies  on  every  tongue. 


O   TEMPOHA!   0  MORES!  285 

Cant  for  religion,  sounding  words  for  truth, 
Fraud  leads  to  fortune,  gelt  for  guilt  atones, 

No  care  for  hoary  age  or  tender  youth, 

For  widows'  tears  or  helpless  orphans'  groans. 

The  people  rage,  and  work  their  own  wild  will, 
They  stone  the  prophets,  drag  their  highest  down, 

And  as  they  smite,  with  savage  folly  still 

Smile  at  their  work,  those  dead  eyes  wear  no  frown. 

The  sage  of  "  Drainfield"*  tills  a  barren  soil, 
And  reaps  no  harvest  where  he  sowed  the  seed, 

He  has  but  exile  for  long  years  of  toil  ; 

Nor  voice  in  council,  though  his  children  bleed. 

And  never  more  shall  "  RedclifPs"  f  oaks  rejoice, 
Now  bowed  with  grief  above  their  master's  bier  ; 

Faction  and  party  stilled  that  mighty  voice, 

Which  yet  could  teach  us  wisdom,  could  we  hear. 

And  "Woodland's"!  harp  is  mute  :  the  gray,  old  man 
Broods  by  his  lonely  hearth  and  weaves  no  song  ; 

Or,  if  he  sing,  the  note  is  sad  and  wan, 

Like  the  pale  face  of  one  who's  suffered  long. 


*  The  country-seat  of  R.  Barn  well  Rhett. 
f  The  homestead  of  Jas.  H.  Hammond. 

{  The  homestead  of  W.  Gilmore  Simms  (destroyed  by  Shermaii> 
army.) 


286  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

So  all  earth's  teachers  have  been  overborne 
.By  the  coarse  crowd,  and  fainting  droop  or  die ; 

They  bear  the  cross,  their  bleeding  brows  the  thorn, 
And  ever  hear  the  clamor — "  Crucify  1" 


Oh,  for  a  man  with  godlike  heart  and  brain  ! 

A  god  in  stature,  with  a  god's  great  will. 
And  fitted  to  the  time,  that  not  in  vain 

Be  all  the  blood  we're  spilt  and  yet  must  spill. 


Oh,  brothers  !  friends  !  shake  off  the  Circean  spell  1 
Kouse  to  the  dangers  of  impending  fate  ! 

Grasp  your  keen  swords,  and  all  may  yet  be  well — 
More  gain,  more  pelf,  and  it  will  be,  too  late  ! 

CHARLESTON  MERCURY  [1864]. 


OUR  DEPARTED  COMRADES. 

BY   J.    MARION    SHIRER. 

I  AM  sitting  alone  by  a  fire 

That  glimmers  on  Sugar  Loaf's  height, 
But  before  I  to  rest  shall  retire 

And  put  out  the  fast  fading  light — 
While  the  lanterns  of  heaven  are  ling'ring 

In  silence  all  o'er  the  deep  sea, 


OUR  DEPARTED   COMRADES. 


287 


And  loved  ones  at  home  are  yet  mingling 

Their  voices  in  converse  of  me — 
While  yet  the  lone  seabird  is  flying 

So  swiftly  far  o'er  the  rough  wave, 
And  many  fond  mothers  are  sighing 

For  the  noble,  the  true,  and  the  brave  ; 
Let  me  muse  o'er  the  many  departed 

Who  slumber  on  mountain  and  vale  ; 
With  the  sadness  which  shrouds  the  lone-hearted, 

Let  me  tell  of  my  comrades  a  tale. 
Far  away  in  the  green,  lonely  mountains, 

Where  the  eagle  makes  bloody  his  beak, 
In  the  mist,  arid  by  Gettysburg's  fountains, 

Our  fallen  companions  now  sleep  ! 
Near  Charleston,  where  Sumter  still  rises 

In  grandeur  above  the  still  wave, 
And  always  at  evening  discloses 

The  fact  that  her  inmates  yet  live — 
On  islands,  and  fronting  Savannah, 

Where  dark  oaks  o'ershadow  the  ground, 
Round  M aeon  and  smoking  Atlanta, 

How  many  dead  heroes  are  found  ! 
And  out  on  the  dark  swelling  ocean, 

Where  vessels  go,  riding  the  waves, 
How  many,  for  love  and  devotion, 

Now  slumber  in  warriors'  graves  ! 
No  memorials  have  yet  been  erected 

To  mark  where  these  warriors  lie, 
All  alone,  save  by  angels  protected, 


288  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

They  sleep  'neath  the  sea  and  the  sky  ! 
But  think  not  that  they  are  forgotten 

By  those  who  the  carnage  survive  : 
When  their  headboards  will  all  have  grown  rotten, 

And  the  night-winds  have  levelled  their  graves. 
Then  hundreds  of  sisters  and  mothers, 

Whose  freedom  they  perished  to  save, 
And  fathers,  and  empty-sleeved  brothers, 

Who  surmounted  the  battle's  red  wave  ; 
Will  crowd  from  their  homes  in  the  Southward, 

In  search  of  the  loved  and  the  blest, 
And,  rejoicing,  will  soon  return  homeward 

And  lay  our  dear  martyrs  to  rest. 


NO   LAND   LIKE   OURS. 

PUBLISHED    IN  THE   MONTGOMK11Y    ADVERTISER,  JANUARY,  186". 
BY    J.  R.  BARRICK,  OF    KENTUCKY. 

THOUGH  other  lands  may  boast  of  skies 

Far  deeper  in  their  blue, 
Where  flowers,  in  Eden's  pristine  dyes, 

Bloom  with  a  richer  hue  • 
And  other  nations  pride  in  kings, 

And  worship  lordly  powers  ; 
Yet  every  voice  of  nature  sings, 

There  is  no  land  like  ours  ! 


NO  LAND  LIKE  OURS.  289 

Though  other  scenes,  than  such  as  grace 

Our  forests,  fields,  and  plains, 
May  lend  the  earth  a  sweeter  face 

Where  peace  incessant  reigns  ; 
But  dearest  still  to  me  the  land 

Where  sunshine  cheers  the  hours, 
For  God  hath  shown,  with  his  own  hand, 

There  is  no  land  like  ours  ! 


Though  other  streams  may  softer  flow 

In  vales  of  classic  bloom, 
And  rivers  clear  as  crystal  glow, 

That  wear  no  tinge  of  gloom  ; 
Though  other  mountains  lofty  look, 

And  grand  seem  olden  towers, 
We  see,  as  in  an  open  book, 

There  is  no  land  like  ours  ! 


Though  other  nations  boast  of  deeds 

That  live  in  old  renown, 
And  other  peoples  cling  to  creeds 

That  coldly  on  us  frown  ; 
On  pure  religion,  love,  and  law 

Are  based  our  ruling  powers — 
The  world  but  feels,  with  wondering  a  wo, 

There  is  no  land  like  ours  ! 
13* 


290  WAJi  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Thoug'h  other  lands  may  boast  their  bravo, 

Whose  deeds  are  writ  in  fame, 
Their  heroes  ne'er  such  glory  gave 

As  gilds  our  country's  name  ; 
Though  others  rush  to  daring  deeds, 

Where  the  darkening  war-cloud  lowers, 
Here,  each  alike  for  freedom  bleeds — 

There  is  no  land  like  ours  ! 

Though  other  lands  Napoleon 

And  Wellington  adorn, 
America,  her  Washington, 

And  later  heroes  born  ; 
Yet  Johnston,  Jackson,  Price,  and  Lee, 

Bragg,  Buckner,  Morgan  towers, 
With  Beauregard,  and  Hood,  and  Bee — 

There  is  no  land  like  ours  ! 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   CHURCH. 

BY    W.  GILMORE    SIMMS. 

The  enemy,  from  his  camp  on  Morris  Island,  has,  in  frequent  letters  in 
the  Northern  papers,  avowed  the  object  at  which  they  aim  their  shells  in 
Charleston  to  be  the  spire  of  St.  Michael's  Church.  Their  practice  shows 
that  these  avowals  are  true.  Thus  far,  they  have  not  succeeded  in  their 
aim.  Angels  of  the  Churches,  is  a  phrase  applied  by  St.  John  in  reference 
to  the  Seven  Churches  of  Asia.  The  Hebrews  recognized  an  Angel  of  the 
Church,  in  their  language,  "  Sheliack-Zibbor,"  whose  office  may  be  de 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  CHURGH.  291 

scribed  as  that  of  a  watcher  or  guardian  of  the  church.  Daniel  says,  iv. 
13,  "Behold,  a  watcher  and  a  Holy  one  came  down  from  Heaven."  The 
practice  of  naming  churches  after  tutelary  saints,  originated,  no  doubt,  in 
the  conviction  that,  where  the  church  was  pure,  and  the  faith  true,  and  the 
congregation  pious,  these  guardian  angels,  so  chosen,  would  accept  the  office 
assigned  them.  They  were  generally  chosen  from  the  Seraphim  and 
Cherubim— those  who,  according  to  St.  Paul  (1  Colossians  xvi.),  represented 
thrones,  dominions,  principalities,  and  powers.  According  to  the  Hebrew 
traditions,  St.  Michael  was  the  head  of  the  first  order;  Gabriel,  of  the  sec 
ond  ;  Uriel,  of  the  third  ;  and  Raphael,  of  the  fourth.  St.  Michael  is  the 
warrior  angel  who  led  the  hosts  of  the  sky  against  the  powers  of  the 
princes  of  the  air;  who  overthrew  the  dragon,  and  trampled  him  under 
foot.  The  destruction  of  the  Anaconda,  in  his  hands,  would  be  a  smaller 
undertaking.  Assuming  for  our  people  a  hope  not  less  rational  than  that 
of  the  people  of  Nineveh,  we  may  reasonably  build  upon  the  guardianship 
and  protection  of  God,  through  his  angels,  "  a  great  city  of  sixty  thousand 
souls,"  which  has  been  for  so  long  a  season  the  subject  of  his  care.  These 
notes  will  supply  the  adequate  illustrations  for  the  ode  which  follows. 

I. 

AYE,  strike  with  sacrilegious  aim 

The  temple  of  the  living  God  ; 
Hurl  iron  bolt  and  seething  flame 

Through  aisles  which  holiest  feet  have  trod  ; 
Tear  up  the  altar,  spoil  the  tomb, 

And,  raging  with  demoniac  ire, 
Send  down,  in  sudden  crash  of  doom, 

That  grand,  old,  sky-sustaining  spire. 

ii. 

That  spire,  for  full  a  hundred  years,* 
Hath  been  a  people's  point  of  sight  ; 

*  St.  Michael's  Church  was  opened  for  divine  worship,  February 
1,1761. 


292  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

That  shrine  hath  warmed  their  souls  to  tears, 
With  strains  well  worthy  Salem's  height  ; 

The  sweet,  clear  music  of  its  bells, 
Made  liquid  soft  in  Southern  air, 

Still  through  the  heart  of  memory  swells, 
And  wakes  the  hopeful  soul  to  prayer. 

in. 

Along  the  shores  for  many  a  mile, 

Long  ere  they  owned  a  beacon-mark, 
It  caught  arid  kept  the  Day-God's  smile, 

The  guide  for  every  wandering  bark  ;* 
Averting  from  our  homes  the  scaith 

Of  fiery  bolt,  in  storm-cloud  driven, 
The  Pharos  to  the  wandering  faith, 

It  pointed  every  prayer  to  Heaven  ! 


Well  may  ye,  felons  of  the  time, 

Still  loathing  all  that's  pure  and  free, 
Add  this  to  many  a  thousand  crime 

'Gainst  peace  and  sweet  humanity  : 
Ye,  who  have  wrapped  our  towns  in  flame, 

Defiled  our  shrines,  befouled  our  homes, 
But  fitly  turn  your  murderous  aim 

Against  Jehovah's  ancient  domes. 

*  "  The  .height  of  this  steeple  makes  it  the  principal  land-mark  tV 
the  pilots."—  Dakho  (in  1810). 


THE  ANGEL   OF  THE  CHURCH. 


Yet,  though  the  grand  old  temple  falls, 

And  downward  sinks  the  lofty  spire, 
Our  faith  is  stronger  than  our  walls, 

And  soars  above  the  storm  and  fire. 
Ye  shake  no  faith  in  souls  made  free 

To  tread  the  paths  their  fathers  trod  ; 
To  fight  and  die  for  liberty, 

Believing  in  the  avenging  God  ! 


VI. 

Think  not,  though  long  his  anger  stays, 

His  justice  sleeps — His  wrath  is  spent ; 
The  arm  of  vengeance  but  delays, 

To  make  more  dread  the  punishment  ! 
Each  impious  hand  that  lights  the  torch 

Shall  wither  ere  the  bolt  shall  fall  ; 
And  the  bright  Angel  of  the  Church, 

With  seraph  shield  avert  the  ball  ! 


VII. 

For  still  we  deem,  as  taught  of  old, 
That  where  the  faith  the  altar  builds, 

God  sends  an  angel  from  his  fold, 

Whose  sleepless  watch  the  temple  shields, 


291  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

A.rid  to  his  flock,  with  sweet  accord, 

Yields  their  fond  choice,  from  THRONES  and  POWERS  ; 
Thus,  Michael,  with  his  fiery  sword 

And  golden  shield,  still  champions  ours  I 


VIII. 

And  he  who  smote  the  dragon  down, 

And  chained  him  thousand  years  of  time, 
Need  never  fear  the  boa's  frown, 

Though  loathsome  in  his  spite  arid  slime. 
He,  from  the  topmost  height,  surveys 

And  guards  the  shrines  our  fathers  gave  ; 
And  we,  who  sleep  beneath  his  gaze, 

May  well  believe  his  power  to  save  ! 


IX. 

Yet,  if  it  be  that  for  our  sin 

Our  angel's  term  of  watch  is  o'er, 
With  proper  prayer,  true  faith  must  win 

The  guardian  watcher  back  once  more  ! 
Faith,  brethren  of  the  Church,  and  prayer- 

In  blood  and  sackcloth,  if  it  need  ; 
And  still  our  spire  shall  rise  in  air, 

Our  temple,  though  our  people  bleed  ! 


ODE-"  SHELL   THE  OLD  CITY!   SHELL!"  295 

ODE—"  SHELL  THE   OLD   CITY  !   SHELL  !" 

BY    W.    GILMORE    SIMMS. 
I. 

SHELL  the  old  city  !  shell  ! 
Ye  myrmidons  of  Hell  ; 
Ye  serve  your  master  well, 

With  hellish  arts  ! 
Hurl  down,  with  bolt  and  fire, 
The  grand  old  shrines,  the  spire  ; 
But  know,  your  demon  ire 

Subdues  no  hearts  ! 

ii. 

There,  we  defy  ye  still, 

With  sworn  and  resolute  will  ; 

Courage  ye  cannot  kill 

While  we  have  breath  ! 
Stone  walls  your  bolts  may  break, 
But,  ere  our  souls  ye  shake, 
Of  the  whole  land  we'll  make 

One  realm  of  death  ! 


in. 


Dear  are  our  homes  I  our  eyes 
Weep  at  their  sacrifice  ; 


296  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And,  with  each  bolt  that  flies, 

Each  roof  that  falls, 
The  pang-  extorts  the  tear, 
That  things  so  precious,  dear 
To  memory,  love,  and  care, 
Sink  with  our  walls. 


IV. 

Trophies  of  ancient  time, 
When,  with  great  souls,  sublime, 
Opposing  force  and  crime, 

Our  fathers  fought ; 
Relics  of  golden  hours, 
When,  for  our  shrines  and  bowers, 
Genius,  with  magic  powers, 

Her  triumphs  wrought  ! 


v. 

Each  Sabbath-hallowed  dome, 
Each  ancient  family  home, 
The  dear  old  southwest  room, 

All  trellised  round  ; 
Where  gay,  bright  summer  vines, 
Linked  in  fantastic  twines 
With  the  sun's  blazing  lines, 

Rubied  the  ground  ! 


ODE-"  SHELL   THE  OLD   CITY!   SHELL!"  297 

VI. 

Homes,  sacred  to  the  past, 
Which  bore  the  hostile  blast, 
Though  Spain,  France,  Britain  cast 

Their  shot  and  shell  ! 
Tombs  of  the  mighty  dead, 
That  in  our  battles  bled, 
When  on  our  infant  head 

These  furies  fell  ! 

VII. 

Halls  which  the  foreign  guest 
Found  of  each  charrn  possessed, 
With  cheer  unstinted  blessed, 

And  noblest  grace  ; 
Where,  drawing  to  her  side 
The  stranger,  far  and  wide, 
Frank  courtesy  took  pride 

To  give  him  place  ! 

VIII. 

The  shaded  walks — the  bowers 
Where,  through  long  summer  hours, 
Young  Love  first  proved  his  powers 

To  win  the  prize  ; 
Where  every  tree  has  heard 
Some  vows  of  love  preferred, 


298          W^-ff  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And,  with  his  leaves  unstirred, 
Watch'd  lips  and  eyes. 


IX. 

Gardens  of  tropic  blooms, 
That,  through  the  shaded  rooms, 
Sent  Orient-winged  perfumes 

With  dusk  and  dawn  ; 
The  grand  old  laurel,  tall, 
As  sovereign  over  all, 
And,  from  the  porch  and  hall, 

The  verdant  lawn. 


x. 

Oh  !  when  we  think  of  these 
Old  homes,  ancestral  trees  ; 
Where,  in  the  sun  and  breeze, 

At  morn  and  even, 
Was  to  enjoy  the  play 
Of  hearts  at  holiday, 
And  find,  in  blooms  of  May, 

Foretaste  of  Heaven  ! 


XI. 

Where,  as  we  cast  our  eyes 
On  things  of  precious  prize. 


ODE— "SHELL   THE  OLD   CITY!   SHEL!"  299 

Trophies  of  good  and  wise, 

Grand,  noble,  brave  ; 
And  think  of  these,  so  late 
Sacred  to  soul  and  state, 
Doomed,  as  the  wreck  of  fate, 

By  fiend  and  slave  ! — 


XII. 

The  inevitable  pain, 

Coursing  through  blood  and  brain, 

Drives  forth,  like  winter  rain, 

The  bitter  tear  ! 
We  cannot  help  but  weep, 
From  depth  of  hearts  that  keep 
The  memories,  dread  and  deep. 

To  vengeance  dear  ! 


XIII. 

Aye,  for  each  tear  we  shed, 
There  shall  be  torrents  red, 
Not  from  the  eye-founts  fed, 

But  from  the  veins  I 
Bloody  shall  be  the  sweat, 
Fiends,  felons,  that  shall  yet 
Pay  retribution's  debt, 

In  torture's  pains  ! 


300  WAR   POETRY  Of  THE  SOUTH. 

XIV. 

Our  tears  shall  naught  abate, 
Of  what  we  owe  to  hate — 
To  the  avenging  fate — 

To  earth  and  Heaven  ! 
And,  soon  or  late,  the  hour 
Shall  bring  th'  atoning  power, 
When,  through  the  clouds  that  lower, 

The  storm-bolt's  driven  ! 


xv. 

Shell  the  old  city— shell  ! 
But,  with  each  rooftree's  knell, 
Vows  deep  of  vengeance  fell, 

Fire  soul  and  eye  ! 
With  every  tear  that  falls 
Above  our  stricken  walls 
Each  heart  more  fiercely  calls, 
"  Avenge,  or  die  1" 


"THE  ENEMY  SHALL   NEVER  REACH   YOUR   CITY."    3Q1 

"THE  ENEMY  SHALL  NEVER  REACH  YOUR 
CITY." 

ANDREW  JACKSON'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  PEOPLE  or  NEW  ORLEANS. 


NEVER,  while  such  as  ye  are  in  the  breach, 

Oh  !  brothers,  sons,  and  Southrons — never  !  never  ! 

Shall  the  foul  eneni}'-  your  city  reach  ! 

For  souls  and  hearts  are  eager  with  endeavor  ; 

And  God's  own  sanction  on  your  cause,  makes  holy 

Each  arm  that  strikes  for  home,  however  lowly  ! — 

And  ye  shall  conquer  by  the  rolling  deep  ! — 

And  ye  shall  conquer  on  the  embattled  steep  ! — 

And  ye  shall  see  Leviathan  go  down 

A  hundred  fathoms,  with  a  horrible  cry 

Of  drowning  wretches,  in  their  agony — 

While  Slaughter  wades  in  gore  along  the  sands, 

And  Terror  flies  with  pleading,  outstretched  hands, 

All  speechless,  but  with  glassy-staring  eyes — 

Flying  to  Fate — and  fated  as  he  flies  ; — 

Seeking  his  refuge  in  the  tossing  wave, 

That  gives  him,  when  the  shark  has  fed,  a  grave  1 

n. 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  of  Battles  :  "  Shall  it  be, 

That  this  great  city,  planted  by  the  sea, 

With  threescore  thousand  souls — with  fanes  and  spires 

Reared  by  a  race  of  unexampled  sires — 


302  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

That  I  have  watched,  now  twice  a  hundred  years,* 
Nursed  through  long  infancy  of  hopes  and  fears, 
Baptized  in  blood  at  seasons,  oft  in  tears  ; 
Purged  with  the  storm  and  fire,  and  bade  to  grow 
To  greatness,  with  a  progress  firm  but  slow — 
That  being  the  grand  condition  of  duration — 
Until  it  spreads  into  the  mighty  nation  ! 
And  shall  the  usurper,  insolent  of  power, 
O'erwhelm  it  with  swift  ruin  in  an  hour  ! 
And  hurl  his  bolts,  and  with  a  dominant  will, 
Say  to  its  mighty  heart — '  Crouch,  arid  be  still  ! 
My  foot  is  on  your  neck  !     I  am  your  Fate  ! 
Can  speak  your  doom,  and  make  you  desolate  1 ' 


in. 

"  No  !     He  shall  know — I  am  the  Lord  of  war  ; 

And  all  his  mighty  hosts  but  pigmies  are  ! 

His  hellish  engines,  wrought  for  human  woe, 

His  arts  and  vile  inventions,  and  his  power, 

My  arm  shall  bring  to  ruin,  swift  and  low  ! 

Even  now  my  bolts  are  aimed,  my  storm-clouds  lower, 

And  I  will  arm  my  people  with  a  faith, 

Shall  make  them  free  of  fear,  and  free  of  scaith  ; 

And  they  shall  bear  from  me  a  smiting  sword, 

Edged  with  keen  lightning,  at  whose  stroke  is  poured 

*  Charleston  was  originally  settled  in  1671.     She  is  now  near  200 
years  old. 


"THE  ENEMY  SHALL  NEVER  REACH  YOUR    CITY."    3Q3 

A  torrent  of  destruction  and  swift  wrath, 
Sweeping  the  insolent  legions  from  their  path  ! 
The  usurper  shall  be  taught  that  none  shall  take 
The  right  to  punish  and  avenge  from  me  : 
And  I  will  guard  my  City  by  the  Sea,  • 
And  save  its  people  for  their  fathers'  sake  I  " 


IV. 

Selah  ! — Oh  !  brothers,  sons,  and  Southrons,  rise  ; 
To  prayer  :  and  lo  !  the  wonder  in  the  skies  ! 
The  sunbow  spans  your  towers,  even  while  the  foe 
Hurls  his  fell  bolt,  and  rains  his  iron  blow. 
Toss'd  by  his  shafts,  the  spray  above  yon  height* 
God's  smile  hath  turned  into  a  golden  light ; 
Orange  and  purple-golden  !     In  that  sign 
Find  ye  fit  promise  for  that  voice  divine  ! 
Hark  1  'tis  the  thunder  !     Through  the  murky  air, 
The  solemn  roll  goes  echoing  far  and  near  ! 
Go  forth,  and  unafraid  !     His  shield  is  yours  1 
And  the  great  spirits  of  your  earlier  day — 
Your  fathers,  hovering  round  your  sacred  shores — 
Will  guard  your  bosoms  through  the  unequal  fray  ! 
Hark  to  their  voices,  issuing  through  the  gloom  : 

*  In  the  late  engagement  of  Fort  Sumter,  with  the  enemy's  fleet, 
April  7th,  the  spray  thrown  above  the  walls  by  their  enormous  mis 
siles,  was  formed  into  a  beautiful  sunbow,  seeing  which,  General 
Ripley,  with  the  piety  of  Constantino,  exclaimed :  "  In  hoc  signo 
mnces  /" 


304  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  The  cruel  hosts  that  haunt  you,  march  to  doom  : 
Give  them  the  vulture's  rites — a  naked  tomb  ! 
And,  while  ye  bravely  smite,  with  fierce  endeavor, 
The  foe  shall  reach  your  city — never  !  never  1" 
CHARLESTON  MERCURY. 


WAR-WAVES. 

BY    CATHERINE    GENDRON    POYAS,    OF    CHARLESTON. 

WHAT  are  the  war-waves  saying, 

As  they  compass  us  around  ? 
The  dark,  ensanguined  billows, 

With  their  deep  and  dirge-like  sound  ? 
Do  they  murmur  of  submission  ; 

Do  they  call  on  us  to  bow 
Our  necks  to  the  foe  triumphant 

Who  is  riding  o'er  us  now  ? 

Never  !     No  sound  submissive 

Comes  from  those  waves  sublime, 
Or  the  low,  mjTsterious  voices 

Attuned  to  their  solemn  chime  ! 
For  the  hearts  of  our  noble  martyrs 

Are  the  springs  of  its  rich  supply  ; 
And  those  deeply  mystic  murmurs 

Echo  their  dying  cry  I 


WAR-  }\A  VES.  3Q5 

They  bid  us  uplift  our  banner 

Once  more  in  the  name  of  God  ; 
And  press  to  the  goal  of  Freedom 

By  the  paths  our  Fathers  trod  : 
They  passed  o'er  their  dying  brothers  ; 

From  their  pale  lips  caught  the  sigh — 
The  j^owie  of  their  hearts  heroic, 

From  the  flash  of  each  closing  eye  1 


Up  !     Up  !  for  the  time  is  pressing, 

The  red  waves  close  around  ; — 
They  will  lift  us  on  their  billows 

If  our  hearts  are  faithful  found  I 
They  will  lift  us  high — exultant, 

And  the  craven  world  shall  see 
The  Ark  of  a  ransomed  people 

Afloat  on  the  crimson  sea  ! 


Afloat,  with  her  glorious  banner — 
The  cross  on  its  field  of  red, 

Its  stars,  and  its  white  folds  waving 
In  triumph  at  her  head  ; 

Emblem  of  all  that's  sacred 
Heralding  Faith  to  view  ; 

Type  of  unblemished  honor  ; 

.     Symbol  of  all  that's  true  I 
14 


306  WAR  POETRY    OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Then  what  can  those  waves  be  singing 

But  an  anthem  grand,  sublime, 
As  they  bear  for  oar  martyred  heroes 

A  wail  to  the  coast  of  Time  ? 
What  else  as  they  roll  majestic 

To  the  far-off  shadowy  shore, 
To  join  the  Eternal  chorus 

When  Time  shall  be  no  more  ! 


OLD  MOULTRIE. 

BY    CATHERINE    GENDRON    POYAS,    OF    CHARLESTON. 

All  lovers  of  poetry  will  know  in  whose  liquid  gold  I  have  dipped 
brush  to  illumine  the  picture. 

THE  splendor  falls  on  bannered  walls 

Of  ancient  Moultrie,  great  in  story  ; 
And  flushes  now,  his  scar-seamed  brow, 
With  rays  of  golden  glory  ! 

Great  in  his  old  renown  ; 
Great  in  the  honor  thrown 
Around  him  by  the  foe, 
Had  sworn  to  lay  him  low  1 

The  glory  falls — historic  walls 
Too  weak  to  cover  foes  insulting, 

Become  a  tower — a  sheltering  bower — • 
A  theme  of  joy  exulting  j 


OLD   MOULTKIE.  307 

God,  merciful  and  great, 
Preserved  the  high  estate 
Of  Moultrie,  by  His  power 
Through  the  fierce  battle-hour  ! 

The  splendor  fell — his  banners  swell 

Majestic  forth  to  catch  the  shower  ; 
Our  own  loved  blue  receives  anew 
A  rich  immortal  dower  ! 

Adown  the  triple  bars 
Of  its  companion,  spars 
Of  golden  glory  stream  ; 
On  seven-rayed  circlet  beam  ! 

The  glory  falls — but  not  on  walls 

Of  Surnter  deemed  the  post  of  duty ; 
A  brilliant  sphere,  it  circles  clear 
The  harbor  in  its  beauty  ; 

Holding  in  its  embrace 
The  city's  queenly  grace  ; 
Stern  battery  and  tower, 
Of  manly  strength  and  power. 

But  brightest  falls  on  Moultrie's  walls, 

Forever  there  to  rest  in  glory, 
A  hallowed  light — on  buttress  height — 

Oh,  fort,  beloved  and  hoary  ! 


308  " 'Ali  I'uXTtiY  UF  THE  SOUTH. 

Rest  there  and  tell  th^t  faith 
Shall  never  suffer  scaith  ; 
JRest  there — and  glow  afar — 
Hope's  ever-burning  star  ! 

CHARLESTON  MERCURY 


ONLY  ONE  KILLED. 

BY   JULIA    L.    KEYES,    MONTGOMERY,  ALA. 

ONLY  one  killed — in  company  B, 

'Twas  a  trifling  loss — one  man  ! 

A  charge  of  the  bold  and  dashing  Lee — 

While  merry  enough  it  was,  to  see 
The  enemy,  as  he  ran. 

Only  one  killed  upon  our  side — 

Once  more  to  the  field  they  turn. 
Quietly  now  the  horsemen  ride — 
And  pause  by  the  form  of  the  one  who  died, 
So  bravely,  as  now  we  learn. 

Their  grief  for  the  comrade  loved  and  true 
For  a  time  was  unconcealed  ; 

They  saw  the  bullet  had  pierced  him  through  ; 

That  his  pain  was  brief — ah  !  very  few 
Die  thus,  on  the  battle-field. 


ONLY  ONE  KILLED.  399 

The  news  has  gone  to  his  home,  afar — 

Of  the  short  and  gallant  fight, 
Of  the  noble  deeds  of  the  young  La  Var 
Whose  life  went  out  as  a  falling  star 

In  the  skirmish  of  that  night. 


"  Only  one  killed  !     It  was  my  son," 

The  widowed  mother  cried. 
She  turned  but  to  clasp  the  sinking  one, 
Who  heard  not  the  words  of  the  victory  won, 
But  of  him  who  had  bravely  died. 


Ah  !  death  to  her  were  a  sweet  relief, 

The  bride  of  a  single  year. 

Oh  !  would  she  might,  with  her  weight  of  grief, 
Lie  down  in  the  dust,  with  the  autumn  leaf 

Now  trodden  and  brown  and  sere  ! 


But  no,  she  must  bear  through  coming  life 

Her  burden  of  silent  woe, 
The  aged  mother  and  youthful  wife 
Must  live  through  a  nation's  bloody  strife, 

Sighing,  and  waiting  to  go. 

Where  the  loved  are  meeting  beyond  the  stars, 
Are  meeting  no  more  to  part, 


310  WAR  POETRY  OF  THJL  SOUTH. 

They  can  smile  once  more  through  the  crystal  bars — 
Where  never  more  will  the  woe  of  wars 
O'ershadow  the  loving  heart. 

FIELD  AND  FIRESIDE. 


LAND   OF   KING   COTTON  * 

AIR— Red,  White,  and  Bluo. 

BY   J.  AUGUSTINE    SIGNAIGO. 

FROM  THE  MEMPHIS   APPEAL,  DECEMBER   18,  1861. 

OH  1  Dixie,  dear  land  of  King  Cotton, 
"  The  home  of  the  brave  and  the  free," 
A  nation  by  freedom  begotten, 
The  terror  of  despots  to  be  ; 
Wherever  thy  banner  is  streaming, 
Base  tyranny  quails  at  thy  feet, 
And  liberty's  sunlight  is  beaming, 

In  splendor  of  majesty  sweet. 
CHORUS. — Three  cheers  for  our  army  so  true, 

Three  cheers  for  Price,  Johnston,  and  Lee  ; 
Beauregard  and  our  Davis  forever, 
The  pride  of  the  brave  and  the  free  1 

*  "  Land  of  King  Cotton"  was  the  favorite  song  of  the  Tennessee 
troops,  but  especially  of  the  Thirteenth  and  One  Hundred  and  Fifty- 
fonrth  regiments. 


IF  YOU  LOVE  ME. 

When  Libert};-  sounds  her  war-rattle, 

Demanding-  her  right  and  her  due, 
The  first  land  that  rallies  to  battle 

Is  Dixie,  the  shrine  of  the  true  ; 
Thick  as  leaves  of  the  forest  in  summer, 

Her  brave  sons  will  rise  on  each  plain, 
And  then  strike,  until  each  Vandal  comer 

Lies  dead  on  the  soil  he  would  stain. 
CHORUS. — Three  cheers,  etc. 

May  the  names  of  the  dead  that  we  cherish, 

Fill  memory's  cup  to  the  briin  ; 
May  the  laurels  they've  won  never  perish, 

"  Nor  star  of  their  glory  grow  dim  ;" 
May  the  States  of  the  South  never  sever, 

But  the  champions  of  freedom  e'er  be  ; 
May  they  flourish  Confederate  forever, 

The  boast  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 
CHORUS. — Three  cheers,  etc. 


IF  YOU  LOVE  ME. 

BY  J.  AUGUSTINE    SIGNAIGO. 

You  have  told  me  that  you  love  me, 
That  you  worship  at  my  shrine  ; 

That  no  purity  above  me 
Can  on  earth  be  more  divine. 


312  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Though  the  kind  words  you  have  spoken, 
Sound  to  me  most  sweetly  strange, 

Will  your  pledges  ne'er  be  broken  ? 
Will  there  be  in  you  no  change  ? 


If  you  love  me  half  so  wildly- 
Half  so  madly  as  you  say, 

Listen  to  me,  darling,  mildly — 

Would  you  do  aught  I  would  pray  ? 

If  you  would,  then  hear  the  thunder 
Of  our  country's  cannon  speak  ! 

While  by  war  she's  rent  asunder, 
Do  not  come  my  love  to  seek. 


If  you  love  me,  do  not  ponder, 

Do  not  breathe  what  you  would  say. 
Do  not  look  at  me  with  wonder, 

Join  your  country  in  the  fray. 
Go  1  your  aid  and  right  hand  lend  her, 

Breast  the  tyrant's  angry  blast  ; 
Be  her  own  and  my  defender — 

Strike  for  freedom  to  the  last. 

Then  I'll  vow  to  love  none  other, 
While  you  nobly  dare  and  do  ; 

As  you're  faithful  to  our  mother, 
So  I'll  faithful  prove  to  you. 


THE  COTTON  BOLL. 

But  return  not  while  the  thunder 
Lives  in  one  invading  sword  ; 

Strike  the  despot's  hirelings  under — 
Own  no  master  but  the  Lord. 


THE   COTTON   BOLL. 

BY  HENRY  TIMROD. 

WHILE  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere  1  — 

By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  hero, 

And  shown  with  boastful  smiles, — 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibres  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands, 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear-grass  from  his  swinging  bed, 

Is  scarce  more  fine  ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

14* 


314  WAS   POETRY  OF  TEE  SOUTH. 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round, 

And  turns  some  city  lane 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  his  capes  arid  isles  ! 


Yonder  bird, — 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest, 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, — 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands, 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns  ; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 

Is  lost  afar 


THE  COTTON  BOLL.  315 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star  ! 

And  lo  ! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow, 

The  endless  field  is  white  ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 

For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day  ! 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands — 

More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale, 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale  — 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 

Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if,  with  Uriel's  crown, 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 

And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down) — 

Nor  lack  there  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod  ; 

Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 

Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways  ; 


316  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH 

A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 

A  hundred  luminous  bays  ; 

And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast  mountains  lift  their  plumed  peaks  cloud-crowned  ; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  ploughman  creeps, 

An  unknown  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 

In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps  ! 

Ye  stars,  which  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 

Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth  ! 

Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 

Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth  I 

Ye  clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  West 

See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers  I 

And,  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 

Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers  ! 

Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 

And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began, 

No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 

Or  given  a  home  to  man  ! 


But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown  ! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace, 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom  ; 

The  Poet  of  "The  Woodlands,"  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone, 


THE  COTTON  BOLL. 

And  the  soft  west-wind's  sighs  ; 

But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 

0  Land  !  wherein  all  powers  are  met 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day, 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own  ! 

Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrorn  doth  spring 

That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders  ;  hushes  hungry  lips 

In  alien  lands  ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands  ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 

Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage-smoke  of  English  homes, 

And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind  ! 

In  offices  like  these,  thy  mission  lies, 

My  Country  !  and  it  shall  not  end 

As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  arid  Heaven  bend 

In  blue  above  thee  ;  though  thy  foes  be  hard 

And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 

Thy  hearthstones  as  a  bulwark  ;  make  thee  great 

In  white  and  bloodless  state  ; 

And,  haply,  as  the  years  increase 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 


WAR  POETRY  OF  TJIK  SOUTH. 


With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  tench  — 
Revive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal  peace  I 


As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 

Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 

Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine 

Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 

Of  winds  and  waters,  and  yet  toil  calmly  on, 

And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 

Or  carve  a  niche,  or  shape  the  arched  roof ; 

So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 

Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 

Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 

Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 

Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still, 

In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 

Upon  the  Northern  winds  the  voice  of  woe 

Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 

The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 

Dry  all  our  tears, 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  Thy  will 

Resigned,  0  Lord  !  we  cannot  all  forget 

That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 

And,  therefore,  not  too  long 

From  the  great  burden  of  our  country's  wrong 

Delay  our  just  release  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON  HARBOll 


And,  if  it  may  be,  save 

These  sacred  fields  of  peace 

From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood  ! 

Oh,  help  us  Lord  !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood 

Back  on  its  course,  and,  while  our  banners  wing 

Northward,  strike  with  us  1  till  the  Goth  shall  cling 

To  his  own  blasted  altar-stones,  and  crave 

Mercy  ;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 

The  lenient  future  of  his  fate 

There,  where  some  rotting  ships  and  trembling  quays 

Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  Western  seas 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON  HARBOR. 

APRIL  7th,  1863. 

BY     PAUL     H.     HAYNE. 

I. 

Two  hours,  or  more,  beyond  the  prime  of  a  blithe  April  day, 
The    Northman's    mailed    "  Invincibles"   steamed   up    fair 

Charleston  Bay  ; 

They  came  in  sullen  file,  and  slow,  low-breasted  on  the  wave, 
Black  as  a  midnight  front  of  storm,  and  silent  as  the  grave. 

ii. 

A  thousand  warrior-hearts  beat  high  as  those  dread  mon 
sters  drew 
More  closely  to  the  game  of  death  across  the  breezeless  blue, 


320  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  twice  ten  thousand  hearts  of  those  who  watched  the 

scene  afar, 
Thrill  in  the  awful  hush  that  bides  the  battle's  broadening 

Star  ! 

in. 

Each  gunner,  moveless  by  his  gun,  with  rigid  aspect  stands, 
The  ready  linstocks  firmly  grasped  in  bold,  untrembling 

hands, 

So  moveless  in  their  marbled  calm,  their  stern  heroic  guise, 
They  looked  like  forms  of  statued  stone  with  burning  human 

eyes  ! 

IV. 

Our  banners  on  the  outmost  walls,  with  stately  rustling 

fold, 
Flash   back  from  arch    and   parapet  the  sunlight's  ruddy 

gold— 
They  mount  to  the  deep  roll  of  drums,  and  widely-echoing 

cheers, 
And  then — once  more,  dark,  breathless,  hushed,  wait  the 

grim  cannoneers. 

v. 

Onward — in  sullen  file,   and  slow,   low   glooming   on   the 

wave, 
Near,   nearer  still,  the  haughty  fleet  glides  silent  as  the 

grave, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON  HARBOR.  321 

When  sudden,  shivering  up  the  calm,  o'er  startled  flood  and 

*    shore, 

Burst  from  the   sacred  Island  Fort  the  thunder-wrath  of 
yore  !* 

VI. 

Ha  !  brutal  Corsairs  !  tho'  ye  come  thrice-cased  in  iron  mail, 
Beware  the  storm  that's   opening   now,   God's  vengeance 

guides  the  hail  ! 
Ye  strive  the  ruffian  types  of  Might  'gainst  law,  and  truth, 

and  Right, 
Now  quail  beneath  a  sturdier  Power,  and  own  a  mightier 

Might  1 

VII. 

No  empty  boast  I  for  while  we  speak,  more  furious,  wilder, 

higher, 

Dart  from  the  circling  batteries  a  hundred  tongues  of  fire. 
The  waves  gleam  red,  the  lurid  vault  of  heaven  seems  rent 

above. 
Fight  on  !  oh  !  knightly  Gentlemen  !  for  faith,  and  home, 

and  love  I 

VIIL 

There's  not  in  all  that  line  of  flame,  one  soul  that  would 

not  rise, 
To  seize  the  Victor's  wreath  of  blood,  tho'  Death  must  give 

the  prize — 


*  Fort  Moultrie  fired  the  first  gun. 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


There's  not  in  all  this  anxious  crowd  that  throngs  the  an 
cient  Town, 

A  maid  who  does  not  yearn  for  power  to  strike  one  despot 
down. 

IX. 

The  strife  grows  fiercer  !  ship  by  ship  the  proud  Armada 
sweeps, 

Where  hot  from  Sumter's  raging  breast  the  volleyed  light 
ning  leaps  ; 

Arid  ship  by  ship,  raked,  overborne,  'ere  burned  the  sunset 
bloom, 

Crawls  seaward,  like  a  hangman's  hearse  bound  to  his  felon 
tomb  ! 

x. 

Oh  !  glorious  Empress  of  the  Main  1  from  out  thy  storied 

spires, 
Thou  well  mayst  peal  thy  bells  of  joy,  and  light  thy  festal 

fires — 
Since  Heaven  this  day  hath  striven  for  thee,  hath  nerved 

thy  dauntless  sons, 
A.nd  thou,  in  clear-eyed  faith  hast  seen  God's  Angels  near 

the  guns  ! 


323 


FORT   WAGNER. 
FORT    WAGNER. 

BY  W.  GILMORE    SIMMS. 
I. 

GLORY  unto  the  gallant  boys  who  stood 

At  Wagner,  and,  unflinching,  sought  the  van  ; 
Dealing  fierce  blows,  and  shedding  precious  blood, 

For  homes  as  precious,  and  dear  rights  of  man  I 
They've  won  the  meed,  and  they  shall  have  the  glory  ;- 

Song,  with  melodious  memories,  shall  repeat 
The  legend,  which  shall  grow  to  themes  for  story, 

Told  through  long  ages,  and  forever  sweet ! 


ii. 

High  honor  to  our  youth— our  sons  and  brothers, 

Georgians  and  Carolinians,  where  they  stand  ! 
They  will  not  shame  their  birthrights,  or  their  mothers, 

But  keep,  through  storm,  the  bulwarks  of  the  land  ! 
They  feel  that  they  must  conquer  !     Not  to  do  it, 

Were  worse  than  death — perdition  !     Should  they  fail, 
The  innocent  races  yet  unborn  shall  rue  it, 

The  whole  world  feel  the  wound,  and  nations  wail  ! 


in. 


No  !     They  must  conquer  in  the  breach  or  perish  ! 
Assured,  in  the  last  consciousness  of  breath 


324  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

That  love  shall  deck  their  graves,  and  memory  cherish 
Their  deeds,  with  honors  that  shall  sweeten  death  ! 

They  shall  have  trophies  in  long  future  hours, 
And  loving  recollections,  which  shall  be 

Green  as  the  summer  leaves,  and  fresh  as  flowers, 
That,  through  all  seasons,  bloom  eternally  ! 


IV. 

Their  memories  shall  be  monuments,  to  rise 

Next  those  of  mightiest  martyrs  of  the  past  ; 
Beacons,  when  angry  tempests  sweep  the  skies, 

And  feeble  souls  bend  crouching  to  the  blast  1 
A  shrine  for  thee,  young  Cheves,  well  devoted, 

Most  worthy  of  a  great,  illustrious  sire  ; — 
A  niche  for  thee,  young  Haskell,  nobly  noted, 

When  skies  and  seas  around  thee  shook  with  fire 


v. 

And  others  as  well  chronicled  shall  be  ! 

What  though  they  fell  with  unrecorded  name — 
They  live  among  the  archives  of  the  free, 

With  proudest  title  to  undying  fame  ! 
The  unchiselPd  marble  under  which  they  sleep, 

Shall  tell  of  heroes,  fearless  still  of  fate  ; 
Not  asking  if  their  memories  shall  keep, 

But  if  they  nobly  served,  and  saved,  the  State  1 


SUM.TER  IN  RUINS. 


For  thee,  young  Portress  Wagner — thou  shall  wear 

Green  laurels,  worthy  of  the  names  that  now, 
Thy  sister  forts  of  Moultrie,  Sumter,  bear  ! 

See  that  thou  lift's t,  for  aye,  as  proud  a  brow  ! 
And  thou  shalt  be,  to  future  generations, 

A  trophied  monument ;   whither  men  shall  come 
In  homage  ;  and  report  to  distant  nations', 

A  SHRINE,  which  foes  shall  never  make  a  TOMB  ! 
CHABLESTON  MEROUKY. 


325 


SUMTER    IN    RUINS. 

BY  W.  GILMORE    SIMMS. 
I. 

YE  batter  down  the  lion's  den, 

But  yet  the  lordly  beast  goes  free  ; 
And  ye  shall  hear  his  roar  again, 
From  mountain  height,  from  lowland  glen, 
From  sandy  shore  and  reedy  fen — 
Where'er  a  band  of  freeborn  men 
Rears  sacred  shrines  to  liberty. 

ii. 

The  serpent  scales  the  eagle's  nest, 
And  yet  the  royal  bird,  in  air, 


326  WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Triumphant  wins  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  sworn  for  strife,  yet  takes  his  rest, 
And  plumes,  to  calm,  his  ruffled  breast, 
Till,  like  a  storm-bolt  from  the  west, 
He  strikes  the  invader  in  his  lair. 


m. 

What's  loss  of  den,  or  nest,  or  home, 

If,  like  the  lion,  free  to  go  ; — 
If,  like  the  eagle,  wing'd  to  roam, 
We  span  the  rock  and  breast  the  foam, 
Still  watchful  for  the  hour  of  doom, 
When,  with  the  knell  of  thunder-boom, 

We  bound  upon  the  serpent  foe  ! 

IV. 

Oh  !  noble  sons  of  lion  heart  ! 

Oh  !  gallant  hearts  of  eagle  wing  ! 
What  though  your  batter'd  bulwarks  part, 
Your  nest  be  spoiled  by  reptile  art — 
Your  souls,  on  wings  of  hate,  shall  start 
For  vengeance,  and  with  lightning-dart, 

Rend  the  foul  serpent  ere  he  sting  ! 


v. 

Your  battered  den,  your  shattered  neat, 
Was  but  the  lion's  crouching-place  ;- 


MORRIS  ISLAND. 

It  heard  his  roar,  and  bore  his  crest, 
His,  or  the  eagle's  place  of  rest  ; — 
But  not  the  soul  in  either  breast  ! 
This  arms  the  twain,  by  freedom  bless'd, 

To  save  and  to  avenge  their  race  ! 
CHARLESTON  MERCURY. 


327 


MORRIS    ISLAND. 

BY"    W.  GILMORE    SIMMS. 

OH  !  from  the  deeds  well  done,  the  blood  well  shed 
In  a  good  cause  springs  up  to  crown  the  land 

With  ever-during  verdure,  memory  fed, 
Wherever  freedom  rears  one  fearless  band, 

The  genius,  which  makes  sacred  time  and  place, 

Shaping  the  grand  memorials  of  a  race  ! 


The  barren  rock  becomes  a  monument, 

The  sea-shore  sands  a  shrine  ; 
And  each  brave  life,  in  desperate  conflict  spent, 

Grows  to  a  memory  which  prolongs  a  line  I 


Oh  I  barren  isle — oh  !  fruitless  shore, 

Oh  !  realm  devoid  of  beauty — how  the  light 


328  WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

From  glory's  sun  streams  down  for  evermore, 
Hallowing  your  ancient  barrenness  with  bright ! 

Brief  dates,  your  lowly  forts  ;  but  full  of  glory, 

Worthy  a  life-long  story  ; 
Remembered,  to  be  chronicled  and  read, 

When  all  your  gallant  garrisons  are  dead  ; 

And  to  be  sung 
While  liberty  and  letters  find  a  tongue  ! 

Taught  by  the  grandsires  at  the  ingle-blaze, 

Through  the  long  winter  night  ; 
Pored  over,  memoried  well,  in  winter  days, 

While  youthful  admiration,  with  delight, 
Hangs,  breathless,  o'er  the  tale,  with  silent  praise  ; 
Seasoning  delight  with  wonder,  as  he  reads 
Of  stubborn  conflict  and  audacious  deeds  ; 

Watching  the  endurance  of  the  free  and  brave, 

Through  the  protracted  struggle  and  close  fight, 
Contending  for  the  lands  they  may  not  save, 

Against  the  felon  and  innumerous  foe  ; 
Still  struggling,  though  each  rampart  proves  a  grave. 

For  home,  and  all  that's  dear  to  man  below  ! 

Earth  reels  and  ocean  rocks  at  every  blow  ; 
But  still  undaunted,  with  a  martyr's  might, 
They  make  for  man  a  new  Thermopylae  ; 
And,  perishing  for  freedom,  still  go  free  1 


PROMISE  OF  SPRING. 

Let  but  each  humble  islet  of  our  coast 
Thus  join  the  terrible  issue  to  the  last  ; 

And  never  shall  the  invader  make  his  boast 
Of  triumph,  though  with  mightiest  panoply 

He  seeks  to  rend  and  rive,  to  blight  and  blast 


PROMISE   OF   SPRING. 

THE  sun-beguiling  breeze, 

From  the  soft  Cuban  seas, 
With  life-bestowing  kiss  wakes  the  pride  of  garden  bovvers; 

And  lo  1  our  city  elms, 

Have  plumed  with  buds  their  helms, 
And,  with  tiny  spears  salute  the  coming  on  of  flowers. 


The  promise  of  the  Spring, 

Is  in  every  glancing  wing 
That  tells  its  flight  in  song  which  shall  long  survive  the  flight; 

And  mocking  Winter's  glooms, 

Skies,  air  and  earth  grow  blooms, 
With  change  as  bless'd  as  ever  came  with  passage  of  a  night! 


Ah  !  could  our  hearts  but  share 
The  promise  rich  and  rare, 

That  welcomes  life  to  rapture  in  each  happy  fond  caress, 

15 


330  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

That  makes  each  innocent  thing 
Put  on  its  bloom  and  wing, 
Singing  for  Spring  to  come  to  the  realm  she  still  would  bless! 


But,  alas  for  us,  no  more 

Shall  the  coming  hour  res  core 
The  glory,  sweet  and  wonted,  of  the  seasons  to  our  souls  ; 

Even  as  the  Spring  appears, 

Her  smiling  makes  our  tears, 
While  with  each  bitter  memory  the  torrent  o'er  us  rolls. 


Even  as  our  zephyrs  sing 

That  they  bring  us  in  the  Spring, 
Even  as  our  bird  grows  musical  in  ecstasy  of  flight — 

We  see  the  serpent  crawl, 

With  his  slimy  coat  o'er  all, 
And  blended  with  the  song  is  the  hissing  of  his  blight. 


We  shudder  at  the  blooms, 

Which  but  serve  to  cover  tombs — 
At  the  very  sweet  of  odors  which  blend  venom  with  the  breath 

Sad  shapes  look  out  from  trees, 

And  in  sky  and  earth  and  breeze, 
We  behold  but  the  aspect  of  a  Horror  worse  than  Death  ! 

SOUTH  CAROLINIAN. 


331 


SPRING. 

BY    HENRY    TIMROD. 

SPRING,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring-,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  appears  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind, 

The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 

The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 


332  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  sterns 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  see,  amid  the  dearth, 
The  crocus  breaking  earth  ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  Soutli 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there 's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 


SPUING.  333 

A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start, 

If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say 

"  Behold  me  !  I  am  May  !" 

Ah  !  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 

With  such  a  blessed  time  ! 

Who  in  the  west-wind's  aromatic  breath 

Could  hear  the  call  of  Death  ! 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 
Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlight  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh  !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring,  kneeling  on  the  sod, 


334  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  calling  with  the  voice  of  all  hor  rills 
Upon  the  ancient  hills, 

To  fall  arid  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


CHICK  AM  AUG  A— "THE   STREAM   OF   DEATH." 

RICHMOND  SENTINEL. 

CHICKAMAUGA  !     Chickamauga  ! 

O'er  thy  dark  and  turbid  wave 
Rolls  the  death-cry  of  the  daring, 

Rings  the  war-shout  of  the  brave  ; 
Round  thy  shore  the  red  fires  flushing, 

Startling  shot  and  screaming  shell — 
Chickamauga,  stream  of  battle, 

Who  thy  fearful  tale  shall  tell  ? 


Olden  memories  of  horror, 

Sown  by  scourge  of  deadly  plague, 
Long  hath  clothed  thy  circling  forests 

With  a  terror  vast  and  vague  ; 
Now  to  gather  further  vigor 

From  the  phantoms  grim  with  gore, 
Hurried,  by  war's  wilder  carnage, 

To  their  graves  on  thy  lone  shore. 


CIHCKAMAUGA-^TUE  STREAM  OF  DEATH"          335 

Long,  witli  hearts  subdued  and  saddened, 

As  th'  oppressor's  hosts  moved  on, 
Fell  the  arms  of  freedom  backward, 

Till  our  hopes  had  almost  flown  ; 
Till  outspoke  stern  valor's  fiat — 
"  Here  th'  invading  wave  shall  stay  ; 
Here  shall  cease  the  foe's  proud  progress  ; 

Here  be  crushed  his  grand  array  1" 


Then  their  eager  hearts  all  throbbing, 

Backward  flashed  each  battle-flag 
Of  the  veteran  corps  of  Longstreet, 

And  the  sturdy  troops  of  Bragg  ; 
Fierce  upon  the  foemen  turning, 

All  their  pent-up  wrath  breaks  out 
In  the  furious  battle-clangor, 

And  the  frenzied  battle-shout. 


Roll  thy  dark  waves,  Chickamauga, 

Trembles  all  thy  ghastly  shore, 
With  the  rude  shock  of  the  onset, 

And  the  tumult's  horrid  roar  ; 
As  the  Southern  battle-giants 

Hurl  their  bolts  of  death  along, 
Breckenridge,  the  iron-hearted. 

Cheatham,  chivalric  and  strorur  : 

c~5 


336  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Polk          Preston — gallant  Buckiier, 

Hill  and  Hindman,  strong  in  might, 
Cleburno,  flower  of  manly  valor, 

Hood,  the  Ajax  of  the  fight  ; 
Berming,  bold  and  hardy  warrior, 

Fearless,  resolute  Kershaw  ; 
Mingle  battle-yell  and  death-bolt, 

Volley  fierce  and  wild  hurrah  ! 


At  the  volleys  bleed  their  bodies, 

At  the  fierce  shout  rise  their  souls, 
While  the  fiery  wave  of  vengeance 

On  their  quailing  column  rolls  ; 
And  the  parched  throats  of  the  stricken 

Breathe  for  air  the  roaring  flame, 
Horrors  of  that  hell  foretasted, 

Who  shall  ever  dare  to  name  1 


Borne  by  those  who,  stiff  and  mangled, 

Paid,  upon  that  bloody  field, 
Direful,  cringing,  awe-struck  homage 

To  the  sword  our  heroes  yield  ; 
And  who  felt,  by  fiery  trial, 

That  the  men  who  will  be  free, 
Though  in  conflict  baffled  often, 

Ever  will  unconquered  be  I 


CH1CKAMAUGA—"THE  STREAM  OF  DEATH."  337 

Learned,  though  long  unchecked  they  spoil  us, 

Dealing  desolation  round, 
Marking,  with  the  tracks  of  ruin, 

Many  a  rood  of  Southern  ground  ; 
Yet,  whatever  course  they  follow, 

Somewhere  in  their  pathway  flows, 
Dark  and  deep,  a  Chickamauga, 

Stream  of  death  to  vandal  foes  1 


They  have  found  it  darkly  flowing 

By  Manassas'  famous  plain, 
And  by  rushing  Shenandoah 

Met  the  tide  of  woe  again  ; 
Chickahominy,  immortal, 

By  the  long,  ensanguined  fight, 
Rappahannock,  glorious  river, 

Twice  renowned  for  matchless  fight. 


Heed  the  story,  dastard  spoilers, 

Mark  the  tale  these  waters  tell, 
Ponder  well  your  fearful  lesson, 

And  the  doom  that  there  befell  ; 
Learn  to  shun  the  Southern  vengeance, 

Sworn  upon  the  votive  sword, 
"  Every  stream  a  Chickamauga 

To  the  vile  invading  horde  !" 


338          WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOVTH. 


IN  MEMORIAM 

OF    OUR    RIGHT-REVEREND    FATHER    IN    GOD,     LEONIDAS    POLK,     LTEUTKXAT- 
GENERAL   CONFEDERATE   STATES    ARMY. 

PEACE,  troubled  soul  !     The  strife  is  done, 

This  life's  fierce  conflicts  and  its  woes  are  ended  : 
There  is  no  more — eternity  begun, 

Faith  merged  in  sight — hope  with  fruition  blended. 

Peace,  troubled  soul  ! 
The  Warrior  rests  upon  his  bier, 
Within  his  coffin  calmly  sleeping. 
His  requiem  the  cannon  peals, 
And  heroes  of  a  hundred  fields 
Their  last  sad  watch  are  round  him  keeping. 


Joy,  sainted  soul  !     Within  the  vale 

Of  Heaven's  great  temple,  is  thy  blissful  dwelling 
Bathed  in  a  light,  to  which  the  sun  is  pale, 

Archangels'  hymns  in  endless  transports  swelling. 

Joy,  sainted  soul ! 
Back  to  her  altar  which  he  served, 

The  Holy  Church  her  child  is  bringing. 
The  organ's  wail  then  dies  away, 
And  kneeling  priests  around  him  pray, 
As  De  Prqfundis  they  are  singing. 


IN  XEMORIAM.  339 

Bring  all  the  trophies,  that  are  owed 

To  him  at  once  so  great,  so  good. 
His  Bible  and  his  well-used  sword — 

His  snowy  lawn  not  "  stained  with  blood  !" 
No  !  pure  as  when  before  his  God, 

He  laid  its  spotless  folds  aside,  * 

War's  path  of  awful  duty  trod, 

And  on  his  country's  altar  died  ! 

Oh  !  Warrior-bishop,  Church  and  State 

Sustain  in  thee  an  equal  loss  ; 
But  who  would  call  thee  from  thy  weight 

Of  glory,  back  to  bear  life's  cross  ! 
The  Faith  was  kept — thy  course  was  run, 

Thy  good  fight  finished  ;  hence  the  word, 
"Well  done,  oh  !  faithful  child,  well  done, 

Taste  thou  the  mercies  of  thy  Lord  1" 

No  dull  decay  nor  lingering  pain, 

By  slow  degrees,  consumed  thy  health, 
A  glowing  messenger  of  flame 

Translated  thee  by  fiery  death  ! 
And  we  who  in  one  common  grief 

Are  bending  now  beneath  the  rod, 
In  this  sweet  thought  may  find  relief, 

"Our  holy  father  walked  with  God, 

And  is  not — God  has  taken  him  !" 

VIOLA. 


340  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  STONEWALL"  JACKSON. 

BY    H.    L.    FLASH. 

NOT  'midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight 
.    Not  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Did  kingly  death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low  ! 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  bore 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town  ; 

When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause,  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Recording  all  his  grand  heroic  deeds, 

Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  his  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  riot  the  nation's  "  Promised  Land," 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 

But  broke  the  "  House  of  Bondage"  with  his  hand- 
The  Moses  of  the  South  ! 

Oh,  gracious  God  !  not  gainless  is  our  loss  : 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  Thy  sternest  frown ; 

And  whil«t  his  country  staggers  with  the  cross — 
He  rises  with  the  crown  1 


8TOi\E\VALL  JACKSON- A   DIRGE.  341 


"STONEWALL"  JACKSON.— A  DIRGE. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  great  chieftain  ! 

In  the  zenith  of  thy  fame  ; 
With  the  proud  heart  stilled  and  frozen, 

No  foeman  e'er  could  tame  ; 
With  the  eye  that  met  the  battle 

As  the  eagle's  meets  the  sun, 
Rayless — beneath  its  marble  lid, 

Repose — thou  mighty  one  ! 


Yet  ill  our  cause  could  spare  thee ; 

And  harsh  the  blow  of  fate 
That  struck  its  staunchest  pillar 

From  'neath  our  dome  of  state. 
Of  thee,  as  of  the  Douglas, 

We  say,  with  Scotland's  king, 
"  There  is  not  one  to  take  his  place 

In  all  the  knightly  ring." 


Thou  wert  the  noblest  captain 
Of  all  that  martial  host 

That  front  the  haughty  Northman, 
And  put  to  shame  his  boast. 

Thou  wert  the  strongest  bulwark 
To  stay  the  tide  of  fight ; 


342  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  name  thy  soldiers  gave  thee 
Bore  witness  of  thy  might ! 

But  we  may  not  weep  above  thee  ; 

This  is  no  time  for  tears  ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  brook  their  shedding, 

Oh  !  saint  among  thy  peers  ! 
Gouldst  thou  speak  from  yonder  heaven, 

Above  us  smiling  spread, 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  us  pause,  for  grief, 

On  the  blood-stained  path  we  tread  ! 

Not — while  our  homes  in  ashes 

Lie  smouldering  on  the  sod  ! 
Not — while  our  houseless  women 

Send  up  wild  wails  to  God  ! 
Not — while  the  mad  fanatic 

Strews  ruin  on  his  track  ! 
Dare  any  Southron  give  the  rein 

To  feeling,  and  look  back  ! 


No  !    Still  the  cry  is  "  onward  !" 

This  is  no  time  for  tears  ; 
No  !    Still  the  word  is  "  vengeance  P 

Leave  ruth  for  coming  years. 
We  will  snatch  thy  glorious  banner 

From  thy  dead  and  stiffening  hand, 


BEAUFORT 


And  high,  'mid  battle's  deadly  storm, 
We'll  bear  it  through  the  land. 


And  all  who  mark  it  streaming — 

Oh  !  soldier  of  the  cross  ! — 
Shall  gird  them  with  a  fresh  resolve 

Sternly  to  avenge  our  loss  ; 
Whilst  thou,  enrolled  a  martyr, 

Thy  sacred  mission  shown, 
Shalt  lay  the  record  of  our  wrongs 

Before  the  Eternal  throne  ! 


BEAUFORT. 

BY    W.    J.    GRAYSON,  OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

OLD  home  !  what  blessings  late  were  yours  ; 

The  gifts  of  peace,  the  songs  of  joy  ! 
Now,  hostile  squadrons  seek  your  shores, 

To  ravage  and  destroy. 


The  Northman  comes  no  longer  there, 
With  soft  address  and  measured  phrase, 

With  bated  breath,  and  sainted  air, 
And  simulated  praise. 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

He  comes  a  vulture  to  his  prey  ; 

A  wolf  to  raven  in  your  streets  : 
Around  on  shining  stream  and  bay 

Gather  his  bandit  fleets. 

They  steal  the  pittance  of  the  poor  ; 

Pollute  the  precincts  of  the  dead  ; 
Despoil  the  widow  of  her  store, — 

The  orphan  of  his  bread. 

Crimes  like  their  crimes — of  lust  and  blood, 
No  Christian  land  has  known  before  ; 

Oh,  for  some  scourge  of  fire  and  flood, 
To  sweep  them  from  the  shore  ! 

Exiles  from  home,  your  people  fly, 
In  adverse  fortune's  hardest  school  ; 

With  swelling  breast  and  flashing  eye — 
They  scorn  the  tyrant's  rule  ! 

Away,  from  all  their  joys  away, 

The  sports  that  active  youth  engage  ; 

The  scenes  where  childhood  loves  to  play, 
The  resting-place  of  age. 

Away,  from  fertile  field  and  farm  ; 

The  oak-fringed  island-homes  that  seem 


BEAUFORT. 

To  sit  like  swans,  with  matchless  charm, 
On  sea-born  sound  and  stream. 

Away,  from  palm-environed  coast, 
The  beach  that  ocean  beats  in  vain ; 

The  Royal  Port,  your  pride  and  boast, 
The  loud-resounding  main. 

Away,  from  orange  groves  that  glow 
With  golden  fruit  or  snowy  flowers, 

Roses  that  never  cease  to  blow, 
Myrtle  and  jasmine  bowers. 

From  these  afar,  the  hoary  head 
Of  feeble  age,  the  timid  maid, 

Mothers  and  nurslings,  all  have  fled, 
Of  ruthless  foes  afraid. 

But,  ready,  with  avenging  hand, 
By  wood  and  fen,  in  ambush  lie 

Your  sons,  a  stern,  determined  band, 
Intent  to  do  or  die. 


Whene'er  the  foe  advance  to  dare 
The  onset,  urged  by  hate  and  wrath, 

Still  have  they  found,  aghast  with  fear, 
A  Lion  in  the  path. 


345 


346  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE 'SOUTH. 

Scourged,  to  their  ships  they  wildly  rush, 
Their  shattered  ranks  to  shield  and  save, 

And  learn  how  hard  a  task  to  crush 
The  spirit  of  the  brave. 

Oh,  God  !  Protector  of  the  right, 

The  widows'  stay,  the  orphans'  friend, 

Restrain  the  rage  of  lawless  might, 
The  wronged  and  crushed  defend  ! 

Be  guide  and  helper,  sword  and  shield  ! 

From  hill  arid  vale,  where'er  they  roam, 
Bring  back  the  yeoman  to  his  field, 

The  exile  to  his  home  ! 

Pastors  and  scattered  flocks  restore  ; 

Their  fanes  rebuild,  their  altars  raise  ; 
And  let  their  quivering  lips  once  more 

Rejoice  in  songs  of  praise  ! 


THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE. 

BY    DR.    J.    R.    BAGBV,    OF    VIRGINIA. 

TOM,  old  fellow,  I  grieve  to  see 

The  sleeve  hanging  loose  at  your  side  ; 
The  arm  you  lost  was  worth  to  me 

Every  Yankee  that  ever  died. 


THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE.  34.7 

But  you  don't  mind  it  at  all  ; 

You  swear  you've  a  beautiful  stump, 
Arid  laugh  at  that  damnable  ball — 

Tom,  I  knew  you  were  always  a  trurnp. 


A  good  right  arm,  a  nervy  hand, 

A  wrist  as  strong  as  a  sapling  oak, 
Buried  deep  in  the  Malvern  sand — 

To  laugh  at  that,  is  a  sorry  joke. 
Never  again  your  iron  grip 

Shall  I  feel  in  .my  shrinking  palm- 
Tom,  Tom,  I  see  your  trembling  lip  ; 

All  within  is  not  so  calm. 


Well  !  the  arm  is  gone,  it  is  true  ; 

But  the  one  that  is  nearest  the  heart 
Is  left— and  that's  as  good  as  two  ; 

Tom,  old  fellow,  what  makes  you  start  ? 
Why,  man,  she  thinks  that  empty  sleeve 

A  b&dge  of  honor  ;  so  do  I, 
And  all  of  us  : — I  do  believe 

The  fellow  is  going  to  cry  ! 

"  She  deserves  a  perfect  man,"  you  say  ; 

"Yon  were  not  worth  her  in  your  prime  :" 
Tom  !  the  arm  that  has  turned  to  clay, 

Your  whole  body  has  made  sublime  ; 


34-8          WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

For  you  have  placed  in  the  Malverri  earth 
The  proof  and  pledge  of  a  noble  life — 

And  the  rest,  henceforward  of  higher  worth, 
Will  be  dearer  than  all  to  your  wife. 


I  see  the  people  in  the  street 

Look  at  your  sleeve  with  kindling  eyes  ; 
And  you  know,  Tom,  there's  naught  so  sweet 

As  homage  shown  in  mute  surmise. 
Bravely  your  arm  in  battle  strove, 

Freely  for  Freedom's  sake,  you  gave  it  ; 
It  has  perished — but  a  nation's  love 

In  proud  remembrance  will  save  it. 

Go  to  your  sweetheart,  then,  forthwith — 

You're  a  fool  for  staying  so  long — 
Woman's  love  you'll  find  no  myth, 

But  a  truth  ;  living,  tender,  strong. 
And  when  around  her  slender  belt 

Your  left  is  clasped  in  fond  embrace, 
Your  right  will  thrill,  as  if  it  felt, 

In  its  grave,  the  usurper's  place. 


As  I  look  through  the  coming  years, 
I  see  a  one-armed  married  man  ; 

A  little  woman,  with  smiles  and  tears, 
Is  helping  as  hard  as  she  can 


THE  COTTON-BURNERS'*  HYMN.  34.9 

To  put  on  his  coat,  to  pin  his  sleeve, 

Tie  his  cravat,  and  cut  his  food  ; 
And  I  say,  as  these  fancies  I  weave, 

"That  is  Torn,  and  the  woman  he  wooed." 

The  years  roll  on,  and  then  I  see 

A  wedding  picture,  bright  and  fair  ; 
I  look  closer,  and  its  plain  to  me 

That  is  Tom  with  the  silver  hair. 
He  gives  away  the  lovely  bride, 

And  the  guests  linger,  loth  to  leave 
The  house  of  him  in  whom  they  pride — 

"  Brave  old  Tom  with  the  empty  sleeve." 


THE  COTTON-BURNERS'  HYMN. 

"On  yesterday,  all  the  cotton  in  Memphis,  and  throughout  the  country, 
was  burned.  Probably  not  less  than  300,000  bales  have  been  burned  in 
the  last  three  days,  in  West  Tennessee  and  North  Mississippi." — Memphis 
Appeal. 


Lo  !  where  Mississippi  rolls 

Oceanward  its  stream, 
Upward  mounting,  folds  on  folds, 

Flaming  fire-tongues  gleam  ; 
'Tis  the  planters'  grand  oblation 
On  the  altar  of  the  nation  ; 


350  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

'Tis  a  willing-  sacrifice — 
Let  the  golden  incense  rise — 
Pile  the  Cotton  to  the  skies  ! 

CHORUS — Lo  !   the  sacrificial  flame 

Gilds  the  starry  dome  of  night ! 
Nations  !  read  the  mute  acclaim — 
'Tis  for  liberty  we  fight  ! 
Homes  !  Religion  !  Right ! 


Never  such  a  golden  light 

Lit  the  vaulted  sky  ; 
Never  sacrifice  as  bright, 

Rose  to  God  on  high  : 
Thousands  oxen,  what  were  they 
To  the  offering  we  pay  ? 
And  the  brilliant  holocaust — 
When  the  revolution's  past — 
In  the  nation's  songs  will  last  ! 

CHORUS — Lo  !  the  sacrificial  flame,  etc. 

in. 

Though  the  night  be  dark  above, 

Broken  though  the  shield — 
Those  who  love  us,  those  we  love, 

Bid  us  never  yield  : 
Never  !  though  our  bravest  bleed, 
And  the  vultures  on  them  feed  ; 


READING   THE  LIST. 

Never  !  though  the  Serpents'  race — 
Hissing  hate  and  vile  disgrace — 
By  the  million  should  menace  ! 

CHORUS — Lo  !  the  sacrificial  flame,  etc. 


Pile  the  Cotton  to  the  skies  ; 

Lo  !  the  Northmen  gaze  ; 
England  !  see  our  sacrifice — 

See  the  Cotton  blaze  ! 
God  of  nations  !  now  to  Thee, 
Southrons  bend  th'  imploring  knee  ; 
'Tis  our  country's  hour  of  need — 
Hear  the  mothers  intercede — 
Hear  the  little  children  plead  ! 

CHORUS— Lo  !  the  sacrificial  flame,  etc. 


READING  THE  LIST. 

"  Is  there  any  news  of  the  war  ?"  she  said— 
"  Only  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead," 

Was  the  man's  reply, 

Without  lifting  his  eye 

To  the  face  of  the  woman  standing  by. 
"  'Tis  the  very  thing  I  want,"  she  said  ; 
"  Read  me  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead." 


352  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

He  read  the  list — 'twas  a  sad  array 
Of  the  wounded  and  killed  in  the  fatal  fray  ; 
In  the  very  midst,  was  a  pause  to  tell 
Of  a  gallant  youth,  who  fought  so  well 
That  his  comrades  asked  :  "  Who  is  he,  pray  ?" 
"  The  only  son  of  the  Widow  Gray," 
Was  the  proud  reply 
Of  his  Captain  nigh. 
What  ails  the  woman  standing  near? 
Her  face  has  the  ashen  hue  of  fear  ! 


"  Well,  well,  read  on  ;  is  he  wounded  ?  quick 
Oh  God  !  but  my  heart  is  sorrow-sick  !" 
"  Is  he  wounded  ?     No  !  he  fell,  they  say, 
Killed  outright  on  that  fatal  day  !" 
But  see,  the  woman  has  swooned  away  I 


Sadly  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  light ; 
Slowly  recalled  the  events  of  the  fight ; 
Faintly  she  murmured  :  "  Killed  outright ! 

It  has  cost  me  the  life  of  my  only  son  ; 

But  the  battle  is  fought,  and  the  victory  won  ; 

The  will  of  the  Lord,  let  it  be  done  I" 


God  pity  the  cheerless  Widow  Gray, 
And  send  from  the  halls  of  eternal  day, 
The  light  of  His  peace  to  illumine  her  way ! 


HIS  LAST  WORDS.  353 


HIS   LAST  WORDS. 

"  A  tew  moments  before  his  death  (Stonewall  Jackson)  he  called  out  in 
his  delirium :  '  Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  action.     Pass  the  infantry 

rapidly  to  the  front.     Tell  Major  Hawks .'      Here  the  sentence  was  left 

unfinished.  But,  soon  after,  a  sweet  smile  overspread  his  face,  and  he 
murmured  quietly,  with  an  air  of  relief:  'Let  us  cross  the  river  and  rest 
under  the  shade  of  the  trees.'  These  were  his  last  words  ;  and,  without 
any  expression  of  pain,  or  sign  of  struggle,  his  spirit  passed  away." 


COME,  let  us  cross  the  river,  and  rest  beneath  the  trees, 
And  list  the  merry  leaflets  at  sport  with  every  breeze  ; 
Our  rest  is  won  by  fighting,  and  Peace  awaits  us  there. 
Strange  that  a  cause  so  blighting  produces  fruit  so  fair  1 

n. 

Come,  let  us  cross  the  river,  those  that  have  gone  before, 
Crush'd  in  the  strife  for  freedom,  await  on  yonder  shore  ; 
So  bright  the  sunshine  sparkles,  so  merry  hums  the  breeze, 
Come,  let  u«  TOSS  the  river,  and  rest  beneath  the  trees. 


in. 

Come,  let  us  cross  the  river,  the  stream  that  runs  so  dark  : 
'Tis  none  but  cowards  quiver,  so  let  us  all  embark. 
Come,  men  with  hearts  uDclaunted,  we'll  stem  the  tide  with 
ease, 

We'll  cross  the  flowing  river,  and  rest  beneath  the  trees. 

16 


354  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


IV. 


Come,  let  us  cross  the  river,  the  dying  hero  cried, 
And  God,  of  life  the  giver,  then  bore  him  o'er  the  tide. 
Life's  wars  for  him  are  over,  the  warrior  takes  his  ease, 
There,  by  the  flowing  river,  at  rest  beneath  the  trees. 


CHARGE   OF   HAGOOD'S   BRIGADE. 

WELDON    RAILROAD,  AUGUST    21,   1864. 

The  following  lines  were  written  in  the  summer  of  1864,  immediately  after 
the  charge  referred  to  in  them,  which  was  always  considered  by  the  brigade 
as  their  most  desperate  encounter. 

SCARCE  seven  hundred  men  they  stand 

In  tattered,  rude  array, 
A  remnant  of  that  gallant  band, 
Who  erstwhile  held  the  sea-girt  strand 
Of  Morris'  isle,  with  iron  hand 

'Gainst  Yankees'  hated  sway. 


SECESSIONVILLE  their  banner  claims, 
And  SUMTER,  held  'mid  smoke  and  flames, 
And  the  dark  battle  on  the  streams 

Of  POCOTALIGO  : 

And  WALTHALL'S  JUNCTION'S  hard-earned  fight, 
And  DREWRY'S  BLUFF'S  embattled  height, 


CHARGE  OF  HAGOOWS  BRIGADE.  355 

Whence,  at  the  gray  dawn  of  the  light, 
They  rushed  upon  the  foe. 

Tattered  and  torn  those  banners  now, 
But  not  less  proud  each  lofty  brow, 

Untaught  as  yet  to  yield  : 
With  mien  unblenched,  unfaltering  eye, 
Forward,  where  bombshells  shrieking  fly 
Flecking-  with  smoke  the  azure  sky 

On  Weldon's  fated  field. 

Sweeps  from  the  woods  the  bold  array, 

Not  theirs  to  falter  in  the  fray, 

No  men  more  sternly  trained  than  they 

To  meet  their  deadly  doom  : 
While,  from  a  hundred  throats  agape, 
A  hundred  sulphurous  flames  escape, 
Round  shot,  and  canister,  and  grape, 

The  thundering  cannon's  boom  ! 

Swift,  on  their  flank,  with  fearful  crash 
Shrapnel  and  ball  commingling  clash, 
And  bursting  shells,  with  lurid  flash, 

Their  dazzled  sight  confound  : 
Trembles  the  earth  beneath  their  feet, 
Along  their  front  a  rattling  sheet 
Of  leaden  hail  concentric  meet, 

And  numbers  strew  the  ground. 


356  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH, 

On,  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
O'er  mangled  limb  and  gory  head, 
With  martial  look,  with  martial  tread, 
March  Hagood's  men  to  bloody  bed, 

Honor  their  sole  reward  ; 
Himself  doth  lead  their  battle  line, 

Himself  those  banners  guard. 

They  win  the  height,  those  gallant  few, 
A  fiercer  struggle  to  renew, 
Resolved  as  gallant  men  to  do 

Or  sink  in  glory's  shroud  ; 
But  scarcely  gain  its  stubborn  crest, 
Ere,  from  the  ensign's  murdered  breast, 
An  impious  foe  has  dared  to  wrest 

That  banner  proud. 

Upon  him,  Hugood,  in  thy  might ! 
Flash  on  thy  soul  th'  immortal  light 
Of  those  brave  deeds  that  blazon  bright 

Our  Southern  Cross. 
He  dies.     Unfurl  its  folds  again, 
Let  it  wave  proudly  o'er  the  plain  ; 
The  dying  shall  forget  their  pain, 

Count  not  their  loss. 

Then,  rallying  to  your  chieftain's  call, 
Ploughed  through  by  cannon-shot  and  ball, 


CAROLINA.  357 

Hemmed  in,  as  by  a  living  wall, 

Cleave  back  your  way. 
Those  bannered  deeds  their  souls  inspire, 
Borne,  amid  sheets  of  forked  fire, 
By  the  Two  Hundred  who  retire 

Of  that  array. 


Ah,  Carolina  I  well  the  tear 

May  dew  thy  cheek  j  thy  clasped  hands  rear 

In  passion,  o'er  their  tombless  bier, 

Thy  fallen  chivalry  ! 
Malony,  mirror  of  the  brave, 
And  Sellers  lie  in  glorious  grave  j 
No  prouder  fate  than  theirs,  who  gave 

Their  lives  for  Liberty. 


CAROLINA. 

APRIL   14,  1861. 
BY   JOHN    A.  WAGENER,  OF    S.  0. 

CAROLINA  !  Carolina  ! 

Noble  name  in  State  and  story, 
How  I  love  thy  truthful  glory, 
A  s  I  love  the  blue  sky  o'er  ye, 
Carolina  evermore  ! 


358 


WAR  POEMS   OF    THE  SOUTH. 

Carolina  1  Carolina ! 

Land  of  chivalry  unfearing, 
Daughters  fair  beyond  comparing 
Sons  of  worth,  and  noble  daring, 
^roliua  evermore  I 


Carolina  !  Carolina  ! 

Soft  thy  clasp  in  loving  greeting, 
Plenteous  board  and  kindly  meeting, 
All  thy  pulses  nobly  beating, 
Carolina  evermore  1 


Carolina  !  Carolina  I 

Green  thy  valleys,  bright  thy  heaven, 
Bold  thy  streams  through  forest  riven, 
Bright  thy  laurels,  hero-given, 
Carolina  evermore  1 


Carolina  !  Carolina  ! 

Holy  name,  and  dear  forever, 
Never  shall  thy  childen,  never, 
Fail  to  strike  with  grand  endeavor, 
Carolina  evermore  1 


tfj  VANNAH.  359 

SAVANNAH. 

BY    ALETHEA    S.    BURROUGHS. 

THOU  hast  not  drooped  thy  stately  head, 
Thy  woes  a  wondrous  beauty  shed  ! 
Not  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Thou  comest  to  thy  battle  bed, 

Savannah  !  oh,  Savannah  ! 

Thine  arm  of  flesh  is  girded  strong  ; 
The  blue  veins  swell  beneath  thy  wrong  ; 
To  thee,  the  triple  cords  belong, 
Of  woe,  and  death,  and  shameless  wrong, 
And  spirit  vaunted  long,  too  long  ! 

Savannah  !  oh,  Savannah  \ 

No  blood-stains  spot  thy  forehead  fair ; 
Only  the  martyrs'  blood  is  there  ; 
It  gleams  upon  thy  bosom  bier, 
It  moves  thy  deep,  deep  soul  to  prayer, 
And  tunes  a  dirge  for  thy  sad  ear, 

Savannah  !  oh,  Savannah  ! 

Thy  clean  white  hand  is  opened  wide 
For  weal  or  woe,  thou  Freedom  Bride  ; 


360  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  sword-sheath  sparkles  at  thy  side, 
Thy  plighted  troth,  whate'er  betide, 
Thou  hast  but  Freedom  for  thy  guide, 

Savannah  !  oh,  Savannah  ! 


What  though  the  heavy  storm-cloud  lowers- 
Still  at  thy  feet  the  old  oak  towers  ; 
Still  fragrant  are  thy  jessamine  bowers, 
And  things  of  beauty,  love,  and  flowers 
Are  smiling  o'er  this  land  of  ours, 

My  sunny  home,  Savannah  ! 


There  is  no  film  before  thy  sight — 
Thou  seest  woe,  and  death,  and  night — 
And  blood  upon  thy  banner  bright ; 
But  in  thy  full  wrath's  kindled  might, 
What  carest  thou  for  woe,  or  night  ? 

My  rebel  home,  Savannah  1 


Come — for  the  crown  is  on  thy  head  ! 
Thy  woes  a  wondrous  beauty  shed, 
Not  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Oh  !  come  unto  thy  battle  bed, 

Savannah  !  oh,  Savannah  ! 


"OLD  BETSY." 
"OLD    BETSY." 

BY  JOHN  KILLUM. 

COME,  with  the  rifle  so  long  in  your  keeping, 
Clean  the  old  gun  up  and  hurry  it  forth  ; 

Better  to  die  while  "  Old  Betsy"  is  speaking, 

Than  live  with  arms  folded,  the  slave  of  the  North. 


Hear  ye  the  yelp  of  the  North-wolf  resounding, 
Scenting  the  blood  of  the  warm-hearted  South  ; 

Quick  !  or  his  villainous  feet  will  be  bounding- 

Where  the  gore  of  our  maidens  may  drip  from  his  mouth. 


Oft  in  the  wildwood  "Old  Bess"  has  relieved  you, 
When  the  fierce  bear  was  cut  down  in  his  track- 

If  at  that  moment  she  never  deceived  you, 
Trust  her  to-day  with  this  ravenous  pack. 


Then  come  with  the  rifle  so  long  in  your  keeping, 
Clean  the  old  girl  up  and  hurry  her  forth ; 

Better  to  die  while  "Old  Betsy"  is  speaking, 

Than  live  with  arms  folded,  the  slave  of  the  North. 


16* 


362  WAR  PASTRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

AWAKE— ARISE! 

BY  G.   W.  ARCHER,  \i.  D. 

SONS  of  the  South — awake— arise  ! 
A  million  foes  sweep  town  amain, 

Fierce  hatred  gleam'  ^g  in  their  eyes, 
And  fire  and  rapine  in  their  train, 
Like  savage  Hun  and  merciless  Dane  ! 
"  We  come  as  brothers  !"     Trust  them  not  ! 
By  all  that's  dear  in  heaven  and  earth, 
By  every  tie  that  hath  its  birth 
Within  your  homes — around  your  hearth  ; 

Believe  me,  'tis  a  tyrant's  plot, 

Worse  for  the  fair  and  sleek  disguise — 

A  traitor  in  a  patriot's  cloak  1 
"  Your  country's  good 
Demands  your  blood  !" 

Was  it  a  fiend  from  hell  that  spoke  ? 

They  point  us  to  the  Stripes  and  Stars  ; 
(Our  banner  erst — the  despot's  now  !) 

But  let  not  thoughts  of  by-gone  wars, 
When  beat  we  back  the  common  foe, 
And  felled  them  fast  and  shamed  them  so, 

Divide  us  at  this  fearful  hour  ; 

But  think  of  dungeons  and  of  chains — 

Think  of  your  violated  fanes — 

Of  your  loved  homestead's  gory  stains — 


AWAKE— ARISE!  363 

Eternal  thraldom  for  your  dower  ! 

No  love  of  country  fires  their  breasts — 
The  fell  fanatics  fain  would  free 

A  grovelling  race, 

And  in  their  place 
Would  fetter  us  with  fiendish  glee  ! 


Sons  of  the  South — awake — awake  ! 
And  strike  for  rights  full  dear  as  those 
For  which  our  struggling  sires  did  shake 
Earth's  proudest  throne — while  freedom  rose, 
Baptized  in  blood  of  braggart  foes. 

Awake — that  hour  hath  come  again  ! 

Strike  !  as  ye  look  to  Heaven's  high  throne — 
Strike  !  for  the  Christian  patriot's  crown — 
Strike  !  in  the  name  of  Washington, 

Who  taught  you  once  to  rend  the  chain, 
Smiles  now  from  heaven  upon  our  cause, 

So  like  his  own.     His  spirit  moves 
Through  every  fight, 
And  lends  its  might 

To  every  heart  that  freedom  loves. 


Ye  beauteous  of  the  sunny  land  ! 

Unmatched  your  charms  in  all  the  earth, 
'Neath  freedom's  banner  take  your  stand  ; 

And,  though  ye  strike  not,  prove  your  worth, 


304  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

As  wont  in  days  of  joy  and  mirth  : 

Lavish  your  praises  on  the  brave — 
Pray  when  the  battle  fiercely  lowers — 
Smile  when  the  victory  is  ours — 
Frown  on  the  wretch  who  basely  cowers- 

Mourn  o'er  each  fallen  hero's  grave  ! 
Lend  thus  your  favors  whilst  we  smite  ! 

Full  soon  we'll  crush  this  vandal  host  ! — 
With  woman's  charms 
To  nerve  their  arms, 

Oh  !  when  have  men  their  freedom  lost  ! 


GENERAL   ALBERT   SIDNEY  JOHNSTON. 

BY    MARY    JERVEY,  OF    CHARLESTON. 

IN  thickest  fight  triumphantly  he  fell, 
While  into  victory's  arms  he  led  us  on  ; 

A  death  so  glorious  our  grief  should  quell  : 
We  mourn  him,  yet  his  battle-crown  is  won. 


No  slanderous  tongue  can  vex  his  spirit  now, 
No  bitter  taunts  can  stain  his  blood-bought  fame 

Immortal  honor  rests  upon  his  brow, 

And  noble  memories  cluster  round  his  name. 


EULOGY  OF  THE  DEAD.  g 

For  hearts  shall  thrill  and  eyes  grow  dim  with  tears, 
To  read  the  story  of  his  touching  fate  ; 

How  in  his  death  the  gallant  soldier  wears 
The  crown  that  came  for  earthly  life  too  late. 

Ye  people  !  guard  his  memory — sacred  keep 
The  garlands  green  above  his  hero-grave  ; 

Yet  weep,  for  praise  can  never  wake  his  sleep, 
To  tell  him  he  is  shrined  among  the  brave  ! 


EULOGY   OF   THE   DEAD. 

BY  B.  F.  PORTER,  OF  ALABAMA. 

"  Weep  not  for  the  dead  ;  neither  bemoan  him." — Jeremiah 

OH  !  weep  not  for  the  dead, 
Whose  blood,  for  freedom  shed, 
Is  hallowed  evermore  ! 
Who  on  the  battle-field 
Could  die — but  never  yield  ! 
Oh,  bemoan  them  never  more — 
They  live  immortal  in  their  gore  ! 

Oh,  what  is  it  to  die 

Midst  shouts  of  victory, 

Our  rights  and  homes  defending  ! 

Oh  !  what  were  fame  and  life 

Gained  in  that  basest  strife 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

For  tyrants'  power  contending, 
Our  country's  bosom  rending  ! 

Oh  1  dead  of  red  Manassah  ! 

Oh  !  dead  of  Shiloh's  fray  ! 

Oh  !  victors  of  the  Richmond  field  ! 

Dead  on  your  mother's  breast, 

You  live  in  glorious  rest ; 

Each  on*  his  honored  shield, 

Immortal  in  each  bloody  field  ! 

Oh  !  sons  of  noble  mothers  I 
Oh  !  youth  of  maiden  lovers  ! 
Oh  !  husbands  of  chaste  wives  ! 
Though  asleep  in  beds  of  gore, 
You  return,  oh  !  never  more  ; 
Still  immortal  are  your  lives  ! 
Immortal  mothers  !  lovers  !  wives  ! 

How  blest  is  he  who  draws 
His  sword  in  freedom's  cause  ! 
Though  dead  on  battle-field, 
Forever  to  his  tomb 
Shall  youthful  heroes  come, 
Their  hearts  for  freedom  steeled, 
And  learn  to  die  on  battle-field. 


*  The  Grecian  mother,  on  sending  her  son  to  battle,  pointing  tc 
his  shield,  said—"  With  it,  or  on  it." 


AX  EXILED  LAMENT. 

As  at  Thermopylae, 

Grecian  child  of  liberty  ; 

Swears  to  despot  ne'er  to  yield — 

Here,  by  our  glorious  dead, 

Let's  revenge  the  blood  they've  shed, 

Or  die  on  bloody  field, 

By  the  sons  who  scorned  to  yield  ! 

Oh  !  mothers  !  lovers  !  wives  ! 
Oh  I  weep  no  more — our  lives 
Are  our  country's  evermore  1 
More  glorious  in  your  graves, 
Than  if  living  Lincoln's  slaves, 
Ye  will  perish  never  more, 
Martyred  on  our  fields  of  gore  ! 


THE  BEAUFORT  EXILE'S    LAMENT. 

Now  chant  rne  a  dirge  for  the  Isles  of  the  Sea, 
And  sing  the  sad  wanderer's  psalm — 

Ye  women  and  children  in  exile  that  flee 
From  the  land  of  the  orange  and  palm. 

Lament  for  your  homes,  for  the  house  of  your  God, 
Now  the  haunt  of  the  vile  and  the  low  ; 

Lament  for  the  graves  of  your  fathers,  now  trod 
By  the  foot  of  the  Puritan  foe  ! 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


No  longer  for  thee,  when  the  sables  of  night 

Are  fading  like  shadows  away, 
Does  the  mocking-bird,  drinking  the  first  beams  of  light, 

Praise  God  for  the  birth  of  a  day. 

No  longer  for  thee,  when  the  rays  are  now  full, 

Do  the  oaks  form  an  evergreen  glade  ; 
While  the  drone  of  the  locust  overhead,  seemed  to  lull 

The  cattle  that  rest  in  the  shade. 

No  longer  for  thee  does  the  soft-shining  moon 

Silver  o'er  the  green  waves  of  the  bay  ; 
Nor  at  evening,  the  notes  of  the  wandering  loon 

Bid  farewell  to  the  sun's  dying  ray. 

Nor  when  night  drops  her  pall  over  river  and  shore, 

And  scatters  eve's  merry-voiced  throng, 
Does  there  rise,  keeping  time  to  the  stroke  of  the  oar, 

The  wild  chant  of  the  sacred  boat-song. 

Then  the  revellers  would  ceaso  ere  the  red  wine  they'd 
quaff, 

The  traveller  would  pause  on  his  way  ; 
And  maidens  would  hush  their  low  silvery  laugh, 

To  list  to  the  negro's  rude  lay. 

"  Going  home  !  going  home  !"  methinks  I  now  hear 
At  the  close  of  each  solemn  refrain  ; 


SOMEBODY^  DARLISG. 


369 


'Twill  be  many  a  day,  aye,  and  many  a  year, 
Ere  ye'll  sing  that  dear  word  "  Home"  again. 

Your  noble  sons  slain,  on  the  battle-field  lie, 
Your  daughters  'mid  strangers  now  roam  ; 

Your  aged  and  helpless  in  poverty  sigh 
O'er  the  days  when  they  once  had  a  home. 

"  Going  home  !  going  home  !"  for  the  exile  alone 
Can  those  words  sweep  the  chords  of  the  soul, 

And  raise  from  the  grave  the  loved  ones  who  are  gone, 
As  the  tide-waves  of  time  backward  roll. 

"  Going  home  !  going  home  !"     Ah  !  how  many  who  pine, 

Dear  Beaufort,  to  press  thy  green  sod, 
Ere  then  will  have  passed  to  shores  brighter  than  thine — 

Will  have  gone  home  at  last  to  their  God  ! 


SOMEBODY'S  DARLING. 

BY    MARIE    LA    COSTE,    OF    GEORGIA. 

INTO  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  halls, 
Where  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay — 

Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells,  and  balls, 
Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day 


370  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  so  brave  ! 

Wearing  yet  on  his  sweet,  pale  face — 
Soon  to  be  hid  in  the  dust  of  the  grave — 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace  ! 


Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow, 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 

Brush  his  wandering  waves  of  gold  ; 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  cold. 


Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 
Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low — 

One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take— 
They  were  somebody's  pride  you  know. 

Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  there  ; 
Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white  ? 

Or  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  their  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best !     He  has  somebody's  love  ; 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there — 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn,  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 


JOHN  PEG  RAM.  37] 

Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 
Looking  so  handsome,  brave,  and  grand  ! 

Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay — 
Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart ; 
And  there  he  lies  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling  child-like  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead — 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear  ; 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  o'er  his  head — 

"  Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 


JOHN  PEGRAM, 

MLL   AT  THE   HEAD    OF   HIS  DIVISION,    FEB.    6TH,  1865,  J3TAT   XXXIII. 
BY   W.    GORDON    MCCABE. 

WHAT  shall  we  say,  now,  of  our  gentle  knight, 
Or  how  express  the  measure  of  our  woe, 

For  him  who  rode  the  foremost  in  the  fight, 
AVhose  good  blade  flashed  so  far  amid  the  foe  ? 

Of  all  his  knightly  deeds  what  need  to  tell  ? — 
That  good  blade  now  lies  fast  within  its  sheath  ; 


372  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

What  can  we  do  but  point  to  where  he  fell, 
And,  like  a  soldier,  met  a  soldier's  death  ? 

We  sorrow  not  as  those  who  have  no  hope  ; 

For  he  was  pure  in  heart  as  brave  in  deed — 
God  pardon  us,  if  blindly  we  should  grope, 

And  love  be  questioned  by  the  hearts  that  bleed. 

And  yet — oh  !  foolish  and  of  little  faith  ! 

We  cannot  choose  but  weep  our  useless  tears  ; 
We  loved  him  so  ;  we  never  dreamed  that  death 

Would  dare  to  touch  him  in  his  brave  young-  years. 

Ah  !  dear,  browned  face,  so  fearless  and  so  bright  ! 

As  kind  to  friend  as  thou  wast  stern  to  foe — 
No  more  we'll  see  thee  radiant  in  the  fight, 

The  eager  eyes — the  flush  on  cheek  and  brow  ! 

No  more  we'll  greet  the  lithe,  familiar  form, 

Amid  the  surging  smoke,  with  deaf'ning  cheer  ; 

No  more  shall  soar  above  the  iron  storm, 

Thy  ringing  voice  in  accents  sweet  and  clear. 

Aye  !  he  has  fought  the  fight  and  passed  away — 
•  Our  grand  young  leader  smitten  in  the  strife  ! 
So  swift  to  seize  the  chances  of  the  fray, 
And  careless  only  of  his  noble  life. 


CAPTIVES  GOING   HOME.  373 

He  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth  !  well  we  know 
The  form  that  lies  to-day  beneath  the  sod, 

Shall  rise  that  time  the  golden  bugles  blow, 

And  pour  their  music  through  the  courts  of  God. 


And  there  amid  our  great  heroic  dead — 

The  war-worn  sons  of  God,  whose  work  is  done- 

His  face  shall  shine,  as  they  with  stately  tread, 
In  grand  review,  sweep  past  the  jasper  throne. 


Let  not  our  hearts  be  troubled  !     Few  and  brief 
His  days  were  here,  yet  rich  in  love  and  faith  : 

Lord,  we  believe,  help  thou  our  unbelief, 

And  grant  thy  servants  such  a  life  and  death  1 


CAPTIVES  GOING  HOME. 

No  flaunting  banners  o'er  them  wave, 

No  arms  flash  back  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
No  shouting  crowds  around  them  throng, 

No  music  cheers  them  on  their  way  : 
They're  going  home.     By  adverse  fate 

Compelled  their  trusty  swords  to  sheathe  ; 
True  soldiers  they,  even  though  disarmed — 

Heroes,  though  robbed  of  victory's  wreath. 


874 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Brave  Southrons  !    'Tis  with  sorrowing  hearts 

We  gaze  upon  them  through  our  tears, 
And  sadly  feel  how  vain  were  all 

Their  heroic  deeds  through  weary  years  ; 
Yet  'mid  their  enemies  they  move 

With  firm,  bold  step  and  dauntless  mien  : 
Oh,  Liberty  I  in  every  age, 

Such  have  thy  chosen  heroes  been. 


Going  home  !     Alas,  to  them  the  words 

Bring  visions  fraught  with  gloom  and  woe 
Since  last  they  saw  those  cherished  homes 

The  legions  of  the  invading  foe 
Have  swept  them,  simoon-like,  along, 

Spreading  destruction  with  the  wind  ! 
"  They  found  a  garden,  but  they  left 

A  howling  wilderness  behind." 


Ah  !  in  those  desolated  homes 

To  which  the  "  fate  of  war  has  come," 
Sad  is  the  welcome— poor  the  feast — 

That  waits  the  soldier's  coming  home ; 
Yet  loving  ones  will  round  him  throng, 

With  smiles  more  tender,  if  less  gay, 
And  joy  will  brighten  pallid  cheeks 

At  sight  of  the  dear  boys  in  gray. 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS  OF  MISSION  RIDGE,  375 

Aye,  give  them  welcome  home,  fair  South, 

For  you  they've  made  a  deathless  name  ; 
Bright  through  all  after-time  will  glow 

The  glorious  record  of  their  fame. 
They  made  a  nation.     What,  though  soon 

Its  radiant  sun  has  seemed  to  set  ; 
The  past  has  shown  what  they  can  do, 

The  future  holds  bright  promise  yet. 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS  OF  MISSION  RIDGE. 

BY   J.    AUGUSTINE    SIGNAIGO. 

WHEN  the  foes,  in  conflict  heated, 

Battled  over  road  and  bridge, 
While  Bragg  sullenly  retreated 

From  the  heights  of  Mission  Ridge — 
There,  amid  the  pines  and  wildwood, 

Two  opposing  colonels  fell, 
Who  had  schoolmates  been  in  childhood, 

And  had  loved  each  other  well. 


There,  amid  the  roar  and  rattle, 
Facing  Havoc's  fiery  breath, 

Met  the  wounded  two  in  battle, 
In  the  agonies  of  death. 


376  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

But  they  saw  each  other  reeling 
On  the  dead  and  dying  men, 

And  the  old  time,  full  of  feeling, 
Came  upon  them  once  again. 


When  that  night  the  moon  came  creeping, 

With  its  gold  streaks,  o'er  the  slain, 
She  beheld  two  soldiers,  sleeping, 

Free  from  every  earthly  pain. 
Close  beside  the  mountain  heather, 

Where  the  rocks  obscure  the  sand, 
They  had  died,  it  seems,  together, 

As  they  clasped  each  other's  hand. 


"  OUR  LEFT  AT  MANASSAS." 

FROM  dawn  to  dark  they  stood, 
That  long  midsummer's  day  ! 

While  fierce  and  fast 

The  battle-blast 

Swept  rank  on  rank  away  ! 


From  dawn  to  dark,  they  fought 
With  legions  swept  and  cleft, 


"OUR  LEFT  AT  MANASSAS."  377 

While  black  and  wide, 
The  battle-tide 

Pourod  ever  on  our  "  Left  I" 


They  closed  each  ghastly  gap  ! 

They  dressed  each  shattered  rank 
They  knew,  how  well  I 
That  Freedom  fell 

With  that  exhausted  flank  ! 

"  Oh  !  for  a  thousand  men, 
Like  these  that  melt  away  \n 

And  down  they  came, 

With  steel  and  flame, 

Four  thousand  to  the  fray  ! 

They  left  the  laggard  train  ; 

The  panting  steam  might  stay  ; 
And  down  they  came, 
With  steel  and  flame, 

Head-foremost  to  the  fray  ! 

Right  through  the  blackest  cloud 
Their  lightning-path  they  cleft  ! 
Freedom  and  Fame 
With  triumph  came 

To  our  immortal  Left. 
17 


378  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Ye  !  of  your  living,  sure  ! 

Ye  !  of  your  dead,  bereft ! 
Honor  the  brave 
Who  died  to  save 

Your  all,  upon  our  Left. 


ON  TO  RICHMOND. 

AFTEB  SOUTHEY'S  "MARCH  TO  MOSCOW." 
BY   JOHN   R.   THOMPSON,    OF   VIRGINIA. 

MAJOR-GENERAL  SCOTT 
An  order  had  got 

To  push  on  the  columns  to  Richmond  ; 
For  lotidly  went  forth, 
From  all  parts  of  the  North, 
The  cry  that  an  end  of  the  war  must  be  made 
In  time  for  the  regular  yearly  Fall  Trade  : 
Mr.  Greeley  spoke  freely  about  the  delay, 
The  Yankees  "  to  hum"  were  all  hot  for  the  fray  ; 
The  chivalrous  Grow 
Declared  they  were  slow, 
And  therefore  the  order 
To  march  from  the  border 

And  make  an  excursion  to  Richmond. 


ON  TO  RICHMOND.  379 

Major-General  Scott 

Most  likely  was  not 

Very  loth  to  obey  this  instruction,  I  wot ; 

In  his  private  opinion 

The  Ancient  Dominion 

Deserved  to  be  pillaged,  her  sons  to  be  shot, 

And  the  reason  is  easily  noted  ; 
Though  this  part  of  the  earth 
Had  given  him  birth, 
And  medals  and  swords, 
Inscribed  with  tine  words, 

It  never  for  Winfield  had  voted. 

Besides,  you  must  know  that  our  First  of  Commanders 
Had  sworn,  quite  as  hard  as  the  Army  in  Flanders, 
With  his  finest  of  armies  and  proudest  of  navies, 
To  wreak  his  old  grudge  against  Jefferson  Davis. 
Then  "  forward  the  column,"  he  said  to  McDowell  ; 

And  the  Zouaves,  with  a  shout, 

Most  fiercely  cried  out, 

"To  Richmond  or  h — 11"  (I  omit  here  the  vowel), 
And  Winfield,  he  ordered  his  carriage  and  four, 
A  dashing  turn-out,  to  be  brought  to  the  door, 

For  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major-General  Scott 
Had  there  on  the  spot 
A  splendid  array 
To  plunder  and  slay  j 


380  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

In  the  camp  he  might  boast 

Such  a  numerous  host, 

As  he  never  had  yet 

In  the  battle-field  set ; 

Every  class  and  condition  of  Northern  society 

Were  in  for  the  trip,  a  most  varied  variety : 

In  the  camp  he  might  hear  every  lingo  in  vogue, 

"  The  sweet  German  accent,  the  rich  Irish  brogue." 

The  buthiful  boy 

From  the  banks  of  the  Shannon, 
Was  there  to  employ 
His  excellent  cannon  ; 
And  besides  the  long  files  of  dragoons  and  artillery, 

The  Zouaves  and  Hussars, 

All  the  children  of  Mars, 

There  were  barbers  and  cooks 

And  writers  of  books, — 

The  chef  de  cuisine  with  his  French  bills  of  fare, 
And  the  artists  to  dress  the  young  officers'  hair. 
And  the  scribblers  all  ready  at  once  to  prepare 

An  eloquent  story 

Of  conquest  aud  glory  ; 

And  servants  with  numberless  baskets  of  Sillery, 
Though  Wilson,  the  Senator,  followed  the  train, 
At  a  distance  quite  safe,  to  "  conduct  the  champagne :" 
While  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 
There  was  certainly  nothing  more  pleasant  to  do 

On  this  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 


ON  TO  RICHMOND. 


In  Congress  the  talk,  as  I  said,  was  of  action, 
To  crush  out  imtanter  the  traitorous  faction. 
In  the  press,  and  the  mess, 
They  would  hear  nothing  less 

Than  to  make  the  advance,  spite  of  rhyme  or  of  reason, 
And  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  insolent  treason. 
There  was  Greeley, 
And  Ely, 

The  bloodthirsty  Grow, 

And  Hickinari  (the  rowdy,  not  Hickman  the  beau), 
And  that  terrible  Baker 
Who  would  seize  on  the  South,  every  acre, 
And  Webb,  who  would  drive  us  all  into  the  Gulf,  or 
Some  nameless  locality  smelling  of  sulphur  ; 
And  with  all  this  bold  crew 
Nothing  would  do, 

While  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  was  so  Mae, 
But  to  march  on  directly  to  Richmond. 


Then  the  gallant  McDowell 
Drove  madly  the  rowel 

Of  spur  that  had  never  been  "  won"  by  him, 
In  the  flank  of  his  steed, 
To  accomplish  a  deed, 

Such  as  never  before  had  been  done  by  him  ; 
And  the  battery  called  Sherman's 

Was  wheeled  into  line, 
While  the  beer-drinking  Germans. 


382  WAR  FOETIIY  OF  Tin:  SOUTH. 

From  Neckar  and  Rhine, 
With  minie  and  yager, 
Came  on  with  a  swagger, 
Full  of  fury  and  lager, 

(The  day  and  the  pageant  were  equally  fine.) 
Oh  1  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 
Indeed  'twas  a  spectacle  pleasant  to  view, 

As  the  column  pushed  onward  to  Richmond. 

Ere  the  march  was  begun, 
In  a  spirit  of  fun, 
General  Scott  in  a  speech 
Said  this  army  should  teach 
The  Southrons  the  lesson  the  laws  to  obey, 
And  just  before  dusk  of  the  third  or  fourth  day, 
Should  joyfully  march  into  Richmond. 

He  spoke  of  their  drill 

And  their  courage  and  skill, 

And  declared  that  the  ladies  of  Richmond  would  rave 

O'er  such  matchless  perfection,  and  gracefully  wave 

In  rapture  their  delicate  kerchiefs  in  air 

At  their  morning  parades  on  the  Capitol  Square. 

But  alack  1  and  alas  ! 

Mark  what  soon  came  to  pass, 

When  this  army,  in  spite  of  his  flatteries, 
Amid  war's  loudest  thunder 
Must  stupidly  blunder 

Upon  those  accursed  "  masked  batteries." 


TURSER  ASHBY.  £$ 

Then  Beauregard  came, 

Like  a  tempest  of  flame, 

To  consume  them  in  wrath 

On  their  perilous  path  ; 

And  Johnston  bore  down  in  a  whirlwind  to  sweep 

Their  ranks  from  the  field 

Where  their  doom  had  been  sealed, 
As  the  storm  rushes  over  the  face  of  the  deep ; 
While  swift  on  the  centre  our  President  pressed, 

And  the  foe  might  descry 

In  the  glance  of  his  eye 

The  light  that  once  blazed  upon  Diorned's  crest. 
McDowell  !  McDowell  !  weep,  weep  for  the  day 
When  the  Southrons  you  meet  in  their  battle  array ; 
To  your  confident  hosts  with  its  bullets  and  steel 
'Twas  worse  than  Oulloden  to  luckless  Lochiel. 
Oh  !  the  generals  were  green  and  old  Scott  is  now  blue, 
And  a  terrible  business,  McDowell,  to  you, 

Was  that  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 
RICHMOND  Wiuo. 


TURNER  ASHBY. 

BY   JOHN    R.  THOMPSON,  OF    VIRGINIA 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render, 

Weep,  ye  skies  of  June  ! 
With  a  radiance  pure  and  tender, 

Shine,  oh  saddened  moon  ! 


384:  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  sou  TIL 

11  Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory," 
Hero  fit  for  song  and  story, 


Lies  our  bold  dragoon  ! 


Well  they  learned,  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,  knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  with  Moor  nor  Paynirn — 
Rode  at  Templestowe  ; 

With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the  hordes  that  would  destroy  us, 
Went  he  forth  we  know. 


Never  more,  alas  !  shall  sabre 

Gleam  around  his  crest ; 
Fought  his  fight,  fulfilled  his  labor, 
Stilled  his  manly  breast ; 

All  unheard  sweet  nature's  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  voice  of  maidens- 
Now  he  takes  his  rest. 


Earth,  that  all  too  soon  hath  bound  him, 

Gently  wrap  his  clay  ; 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 
Light  of  dying  day  ; 

Softly  fall  the  summer  showers, 
Birds  and  bees  among  the  flowers 
Make  the  gloom  seem  gay. 


CAPTAIN  LATAKE.  3S5 


There,  throughout  the  coming-  ages, 

When  his  sword  is  rust, 
And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages  ; 
Mindful  of  her  trust, 

Shall  Virginia,  bending  lowly, 
Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy 
Keep  above  his  dust. 


CAPTAIN   LATANE. 

BY    JOHN    R.  THOMPSON,  OF    VIRGINIA. 

THE  combat  raged  not  long  ;  but  ours  the  day, 

And  through  the  hosts  which  compassed  us  around 

Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 
Leaving  one  gallant  spirit,  glory  crowned, 

Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain  : 

Single,  of  all  his  men,  among  the  hostile  slain  1 


One  moment  at  the  battle's  edge  he  stood, 
Hope's  halo,  like  a  helmet,  round  his  hair — • 

The  next,  beheld  him  dabbled  in  his  blood, 

Prostrate  in  death  ;  and  yet  in  death  how  fair  ! 

And  thus  he  passed,  through  the  red  gates  of  strife, 

From  earthly  crowns  and  palms,  to  an  eternal  life. 

17* 


386  WAR  fOETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field, 

And  gave  it  into  strangers'  hands,  who  closed 

His  calm  blue  eyes,  on  earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  slender  limbs  composed  ; 

Strangers,  but  sisters,  who,  with  Mar  if  s  love, 

Sat,  by  the  open  tomb  and,  weeping,  looked  above. 

A  little  girl  strewed  roses  on  his  bier, 

Pale  roses — not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 

Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere, 

That  blossomed  with  good  actions — brief,  but  whole. 

The  aged  matron,  with  the  faithful  slave, 

Approached  with  reverent  steps  the  hero's  lowly  grave. 

No  man  of  God  might  read  the  burial  rite 
Above  the  rebel — thus  declared  the  foe, 

Who  blanched  before  him  in  the  deadly  fight  ; 
But  woman's  voice,  in  accents  soft  and  low, 

Trembling  with  pity,  touched  with  pathos,  read 

Over  his  hallowed  dust,  the  ritual  for  the  dead  ! 

"  'Tis  sown  in  weakness  ;  it  is  raised  in  power." 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air, 
And  the  sweet  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour, 

Come  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer. 
Gently  they  laid  him  underneath  the  sod, 
And  left  him  with  his  fame,  his  country,  and  his  God. 


THE  MEN.  387 

We  should  not  weep  for  him  !     His  deeds  endure  ; 

So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  brave — he  died 
As  he  would  wish  to  die.     The  past  secure, 

Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 
Those  who  still  linger  by  the  stormy  shore  ; 
Change  cannot  hurt  him  now,  nor  fortune  reach  him  more. 


And  when  Virginia,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Vitrixetmdua,i\\v  conflict  done, 
Shall  raise  her  mailed  hand  to  wipe  the  tear 

That  starts,  as  she  recalls  each  martyr  son  ; 
No  prouder  memory  her  breast  shall  sway 
Than  thine — the  early  lost — lamented  Lat-a-ne  1 


THE   MEN. 

BY    MAURICE    BELL. 

IN  the  dusk  of  the  forest  shade 

A  sallow  and  dusty  group  reclined  ; 
Gallops  a  horseman  up  the  glade — 
"  Where  will  I  your  leader  find  ? 
Tidings  I  bring  from  the  morning's  scout — 

I've  borne  them  o'er  mound,  and  moor,  and  fen/' 
"  Well,  sir,  stay  not  hereabout, 

Here  are  only  a  few  of  '  the  men.1 


38$  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

"  Here  no  collar  has  bar  or  star, 

No  rich  lacing  adorns  a  sleeve  ; 
Further  on  our  officers  are, 

Let  them  your  report  receive. 
Higher  up,  on  the  hill  up  there, 

Overlooking  this  shady  glen, 
There  are  their  quarters — don't  stop  here, 

We  are  only  some  of  '  the  men.' 


"  Yet  stay,  courier,  if  you  bear 

Tidings  that  the  fight  is  near  ; 
Tell  them  we're  ready,  and  that  where 

They  wish  us  to  be  we'll  soon  appear  ; 
Tell  them  only  to  let  us  know 

Where  to  form  our  ranks,  and  when  ; 
And  we'll  teach  the  vaunting  foe 

That  they've  met  a  few  of  '  the  men/ 


"  We're  the  men,  though  our  clothes  are  worn — 

We're  the  men,  though  we  wear  no  lace — 
We're  the  men,  who  the  foe  hath  torn, 

And  scattered  their  ranks  in  dire  disgrace  ; 
We're  the  men  who  have  triumphed  before — 

We're  the  men  who  will  triumph  again  ; 
For  the  dust,  and  the  smoke,  and  the  cannon's  roar 

And  the  clashing  bayonets — '  we're  the 


A  REBEL  SOLDIER.  389 

"  Ye  who  sneer  at  the  battle-scars, 

Of  garments  faded,  and  soiled  arid  bare, 
Yet  who  have  for  the  '  stars  arid  bars" 

Praise,  and  homage,  and  dainty  fare  ; 
Mock  the  wearers  and  pass  them  on, 

Refuse  them  kindly  word — and  then 
Know,  if  your  freedom  is  ever  won 

By  human  agents — these  are  the  men  !" 


11 A  REBEL  SOLDIER  KILLED  IN  THE  TRENCHES 
BEFORE  PETERSBURG,  YA.,  APRIL  15,  1865." 

BY    A    KENTUCKY    GIRL. 

KILLED  in  the  trenches  !     How  cold  and  bare 
The  inscription  graved  on  the  white  card  there. 
'Tis  a  photograph,  taken  last  Spring,  they  say, 
Ere  the  smoke  of  battle  had  cleared  away — 
Of  a  rebel  soldier — just  as  he  fell, 
When  his  heart  was  pierced  by  a  Union  shell  ; 
Arid  his  image  was  stamped  by  the  sunbeam's  ray, 
As  he  lay  in  the  trenches  that  April  day. 

Oh  God  !     Oh  God  !     How  my  woman's  heart 

Thrills  with  a  quick,  convulsive  pain, 
As  I  view,  unrolled  by  the  magic  of  Art, 

One  dreadful  scene  from  the  battle-plain  :— 


390  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

White  as  the  foam  of  the  storm-tossed  wave, 
Lone  as  the  rocks  those  billows  lave — 
Gray  sky  above — cold  clay  beneath — 
A  gallant  form  lies  stretched  in  death  ! 

With  his  calm  face  fresh  on  the  trampled  clay, 
And  the  brave  hands  clasped  o'er  the  manly 
Save  the  sanguine  stains  on  his  jacket  gray, 

We  might  deem  him  taking  a  soldier's  rest. 
Ah  no  !     Too  red  is  that  crimson  tide — 
Too  deeply  pierced  that  wounded  side  ; 
Youth,  hope,  love,  glory — manhood's  pride — 
Have  all  in  vain  Death's  bolt  defied. 


His  faithful  carbine  lies  useless  there, 

As  it  dropped  from  its  master's  nerveless  ward  ; 
And  the  sunbeams  glance  on  his  waving  hair 

Which  the  fallen  cap  has  ceased  to  guard — 
Oh  Heaven  !  spread  o'er  it  thy  merciful  shield, 
No  more  to  my  sight  be  the  battle  revealed  ! 
Oh  fiercer  than  tempest — grim  Hades  as  dread — 
On  woman's  eye  flashes  the  field  of  the  dead  ! 

The  scene  is  changed  :     In  a  quiet  room, 
Far  from  the  spot  where  the  lone  corse  lies, 

A  mother  kneels  in  the  evening  gloom 
To  offer  her  nightly  sacrifice. 


BATTLE  OF  HAMPT01V  ROADS.  39} 

The  noon  is  past,  and  the  day  is  done, 
She  knows  that  the  battle  is  lost  or  won — 
Who  lives  ?     Who  died  ?     Hush  !  be  thou  still  ! 
The  boy  lies  dead  on  the  trench-barred  hill. 


BATTLE  OF  HAMPTON  ROADS. 

BY    OSSIAtf    D.    GORMAN. 

NE'ER  had  a  scene  of  beauty  smiled 

On  placid  waters  'neath  the  sun, 
Like  that  on  Hampton's  watery  plain, 

The  fatal  morn  the  fight  begun. 
Far  toward  the  silvery  Sewell  shores, 

Below  the  guns  of  Craney  Isle, 
Were  seen  our  fleet  advancing  fast, 

Beneath  the  sun's  auspicious  srnile. 

Oh,  fatal  sight  !  the  hostile  hordes 

Of  Newport  camp  spread  dire  alarms 
The  Cumberland  for  fight  prepares — 

The  fierce  marines  now  rush  to  arms. 
The  Merrimac,  strong  cladded  o'er, 

In  quarters  close  begins  her  fire, 
Nor  fears  the  rushing  hail  of  shot, 

And  deadly  missiles  swift  and  dire  ; 
But,  rushing  on  'mid  smoke  and  flame, 

And  belching  thunder  long  and  loud, 


392  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Salutes  the  ship  with  bow  austere, 

And  then  withdraws  in  wreaths  of  cloud. 

The  work  is  done.     The  frigate  turns 

In  agonizing,  doubtful  poise — 
She  sinks,  she  sinks  !  along  the  deck 

Is  heard  a  shrieking,  wailing  noise. 
Engulfed  beneath  those  placid  waves 

Disturbed  by  battle's  onward  surge, 
The  crew  is  gone  ;  the  vessel  sleeps, 

And  whistling  bombshells  sing  her  dirge 

The  battle  still  is  raging  fierce  : 

The  Congress,  "  high  and  dry"  aground, 
Maintains  in  vain  her  boasted  power, 

For  now  the  gunboats  flock  around, 
With  "  stars  and  bars"  at  mainmast  reared, 

And  pour  their  lightning  on  the  main, 
While  Merrimac,  approaching  fast 

Sends  forth  her  shell  and  hot-shot  rain. 

Meantime  the  Jamestown,  gallant  boat, 

Engages  strong  redoubts  at  land — 
While  Patrick  Henry  glides  along, 

To  board  the  Congress,  still  astrand. 
This  done,  we  turn  intently  on 

The  Minnesota,  which  replies, 
With  whizzing  shell  to  Teaser's  gun, 

Whose  booming  cleaves  the  distant  skies. 


IS  THIS  A    TIME  TO  DANCET  393 

The  naval  combat  sounds  anew  ; 

The  hostile  fleets  are  not  withdrawn, 
Though  night  is  closing  earth  and  sea 

In  twilight's  pale  and  mystic  dawn. 
Strange  whistling  noises  fill  the  air  ; 

The  powdered  smoke  looks  dark  as  night, 
And  deadly,  lurid  flames,  pour  forth 

Their  radiance  on  the  missiles'  flight ; 
Grand  picture  on  the  noisy  waves  ! 

The  breezy  zephyrs  onward  roam, 
And  echoing  volleys  float  afar, 

Disturbing  Neptune's  coral  home. 
The  victory's  ours,  and  let  the  world 

Record  Buchanan's*  name  with  pride  ; 
The  crew  is  brave,  the  banner  bright, 

That  ruled  the  day  when  Hutterf  died. 
MACON  DAILT  TELEGRAPH. 


IS   THIS   A  TIME  TO   DANCE? 

THE  breath  of  evening  sweeps  the  plain, 
And  sheds  its  perfume  in  the  dell, 

But  on  its  wings  are  sounds  of  pain, 
Sad  tones  that  drown  the  echo's  swell  ; 

*  Commander  of  the  "  Merrimac." 

f  Midshipman  on  the  "  Patrick  Henry." 


394  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  yet  we  hear  a  mirthful  call, 

Fair  pleasure  smiles  with  beaming  glance, 

Gay  music  sounds  in  the  joyous  hall  : 
Oh  God  1  is  this  a  time  to  dance  ? 


Sad  notes,  as  if  a  spirit  sighed, 

Float  from  the  crimson  battle-plain, 
As  if  a  mighty  spirit  cried 

In  awful  agony  and  pain  : 
Our  friends  we  know  there  suffering  lay, 

Our  brothers,  too,  perchance, 
And  in  reproachful  accents  say, 

Loved  ones,  is  this  a  time  to  dance  ? 

Oh,  lift  your  festal  robes  on  high  ! 

The  human  gore  that  flows  around 
Will  stain  their  hues  with  crimson  dye  ; 

And  louder  let  your  music  sound 
To  drown  the  dying  warrior's  cry  ! 

Let  sparkling  wine  your  joy  enhance. 
Forget  that  blood  has  tinged  its  dye, 

And  quicker  urge  the  maniac  dance. 

But  stop  !  the  floor  beneath  your  feet 
Gives  back  a  coffin's  hollow  moan, 

And  every  strain  of  music  sweet, 
Wafts  forth  a  dying  soldier's  groan. 


"THE  MARYLAND  LINK"  395 

Oh,  sisters  !  who  have  brothers  dear 

Exposed  to  every  battle's  chance, 
Brings  dark  Remorse  no  forms  of  fear, 

To  fright  you  from  the  heartless  dance  ? 

Go,  fling  your  festal  robes  away  ! 

Go,  don  the  mourner's  sable  veil  ! 
Go,  bow  before  your  God,  and  pray  ! 

If  yet  your  prayers  may  aught  avail. 
Go,  face  the  fearful  form  of  Death  ! 

Arid  trembling  meet  his  chilling  glance, 
And  then,  for  once,  with  truthful  breath, 

Answer,  7s  this  a  time  to  dance  f 


"THE   MARYLAND   LINE." 

BY  j.  D.  M'CABE,  JR. 

The  Maryland  regiments  in  the  Confederate  army  have  adopted  the  title 
of  "  The  Maryland  Line,"  which  was  so  heroically  sustained  by  their  patriot 
sires  of  the  first  Revolution,  and  which  the  deeds  of  Marylanders  at  Ma- 
n;issas,  show  that  the  patriot  Marylanders  of  this  second  Revolution  are 
worthy  to  bear. 

BY  old  Potomac's  rushing  tide, 

Our  bayonets  are  gleaming  ; 
And  o'er  the  bounding  waters  wide 

We  gaze,  while  tears  are  streaming. 


396  WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

The  distant  hills  of  Maryland 

Rise  sadly  up  before  us — 
And  tyrant  bands  have  chained  our  land, 

Our  mother  proud  that  bore  us. 


Our  proud  old  mother's  queenly  head 

Is  bowed  in  subjugation  ; 
With  her  children's  blood  her  soil  is  red, 

And  fiends  in  exultation 
Taunt  her  with  shame  as  they  bind  her  chains, 

While  her  heart  is  torn  with  anguish  ; 
Old  mother,  on  famed  Manassas'  plains 

Our  vengeance  did  not  languish. 

We  thought  of  your  wrongs  as  on  we  rushed, 

'Mid  shot  and  shell  appalling  ; 
We  heard  your  voice  as  it  upward  gush'd, 

From  the  Maryland  life-blood  falling. 
No  pity  we  knew  !     Did  they  mercy  show 

When  they  bound  the  mother  that  bore  us  ? 
But  we  scattered  death  'mid  the  dastard  foe 

Till  they,  shrieking,  fled  before  us. 

We  mourn  for  our  brothers  brave  that  fell 
On  that  field  so  stern  and  gory  ; 

But  their  spirits  rose  with  our  triumph  yell 
To  the  heavenly  realms  of  glory. 


THE   VIRGINIANS  OF  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY.      397 

And  their  bodies  rest  on  the  hard-won  field — 

By  their  love  so  true  and  tender, 
We'll  keep  the  prize  they  would  not  yield, 

We'll  die,  but  we'll  not  surrender. 


THE  VIRGINIANS   OF  THE   SHENANDOAH  VALLEY. 

"  Sic  Jurat." 
BY    FRANK    TICKNOR,    M.D.,    OF    GEORGIA. 

THE  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 

Who,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold ; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

Who  rarely  hated  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Smith  around  the  land. 

And  Raleigh  o'er  the  seas ; 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginia  hills, 

Amid  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose ; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  thousand  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth, — 


398  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

We  feared  they  slept !  —  the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noblest  sires, 
And  waked  not,  though  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires ; 
But  still  the  Golden  Horse-shoe  Knights 

Their  "  Old  Dominion"  keep  : 
The  foe  has  found  the  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep. 
TORCH-HALL,  GEORGIA. 


SONNET.— THE  AVATAR  OF  HELL. 

CHARLESTON    MERCURY. 

Six  thousand  years  of  commune,  God  with  man, — 
Two  thousand  years  of  Christ ;  yet  from  such  roots, 
Immortal,  earth  reaps  only  bitterest  fruits  ! 
The  fiends  rage  now  as  when  they  first  began  I 
Hate,  Lust,  Greed,  Vanity,  triumphant  still, 
Yell,  shout,  exult,  and  lord  o'er  human  will  \ 
The  sun  moves  back  1     The  fond  convictions  felt, 
That,  in  the  progress  of  the  race,  we  stood, 
Two  thousand  years  of  height  above  the  flood 
Before  the  day's  experience  sink  and  melt, 
As  frost  beneath  the  fire  !  and  what  remains 
Of  all  our  grand  ideals  and  great  gains, 
With  Goth,  Hun,  Vandal,  warring  in  their  pride, 
While  the  meek  Christ  is  hourly  crucified  ! 

PAX. 


STONEWALL"  JACKSON'S   WAY.  399 


"STONEWALL"  JACKSON'S  WAY. 

These  verses,  according  to  the  newspaper  account,  may  have  been  found 
in  the  bosom  of  a  dead  rebel,  after  one  of  Jackson's  battles  in  the  Shenan- 
doah  valley ;  but  we  are  pleased  to  state  that  the  author  of  them  is  a  still 
living  rebel,  and  able  to  write  even  better  things. 

COME,  stack  arms,  men  !     Pile  on  the  rails  ; 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ; 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
Here  burly  Bine  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song, 

Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 


We  see  him  now  —  the  old  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew  — 
The  shrewd  dry  smile  —  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "  Blue  Light  Elder  "  knows  'em  well : 
Says  he,  "  That's  Banks  ;  he's  fond  of  shell. 
Lord  save  his  soul !  we'll  give  him "  well 

That's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Silence  !     Ground  arms  !     Kneel  all !     Caps  off! 

Old  "  Blue  Light's  "  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention  !    it's  his  way  ! 


400  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Appealing  from  his  native  sod 
In  forma  pauper  is  to  God, 

"  Lay  bare  thine  arm  !     Stretch  forth  thy  rod  ! 
Amen  !  "     That's  Stonewall's  way. 

He's  in  the  saddle  now  :    Fall  in  ! 

Steady  !     The  whole  brigade  ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off;  we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade. 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn? 
Quick  step  !    we're  with  him  before  dawn  ! 

That's  Stonewall  Jackson's  way  ! 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 
Of  morning  —  and,  by  George  ! 

Here's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 
Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 

Pope  and  his  Yankees,  whipped  before  : 

"  Bayonets  and  grape  !  "  hear  Stonewall  roar  ; 

"  Charge,  Stuart !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score, 
In  Stonewall  Jackson's  way  !  " 

Ah,  maiden  !  wait,  and  watch,  and  yearn, 
For  news  of  Stonewall's  band  ! 

Ah,  widow  !  read  —  with  eyes  that  burn, 
That  ring  upon  thy  hand  ! 


THE  SILENT  MARCH.  4.QI 

Ah  1  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on  : 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born, 

That  gets  in  StonewalPs  way. 


THE  SILENT  MARCH. 

On  one  occasion  during  the  war  in  Virginia,  General  Lee  was  lying  asleep 
by  the  wayside,  when  an  army  of  fifteen  thousand  men  passed  by  with 
hushed  voices  and  footsteps,  lest  they  should  disturb  his  slumbers. 

O'ERCOME  with  weariness  and  care, 

The  war-worn  veteran  lay 
On  the  green  turf  of  his  native  land, 

And  slumbered  by  the  way  ; 
The  breeze  that  sighed  across  his  brow, 

And  smoothed  its  deepened  lines, 
Fresh  from  his  own  loved  mountain  bore 

The  murmur  of  their  pines  ; 
And  the  glad  sound  of  waters, 

The  blue  rejoicing  streams, 
Whose  sweet  familiar  tones  were  blent 

With  the  music  of  his  dreams : 
They  brought  no  sound  of  battle's  din, 

Shrill  fife  or  clarion, 
But  only  tenderest  memories 

Of  his  own  fair  Arlington. 

18 


4-02  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

While  thus  the  chieftain  slumbered, 

Forgetful  of  his  care, 
The  hollow  tramp  of  thousands 

Came  sounding  through  the  air. 
With  ringing  spur  and  sabre, 

And  trampling  feet  they  come, 
Gay  plume  and  rustling  banner, 

And  fife,  and  trump,  and  drum  ; 
But  soon  the  foremost  column 

Sees  where,  beneath  the  shade, 
In  slumber,  calm  as  childhood, 

Their  wearied  chief  is  laid  ; 
And  down  the  line  a  murmur 

From  lip  to  lip  there  ran, 
Until  the  stilly  whisper 

Had  spread  to  rear  from  van  ; 
And  o'er  the  host  a  silence 

As  deep  and  sudden  fell, 
As  though  some  mighty  wizard 

Had  hushed  them  with  a  spell  ; 
And  every  sound  was  muffled, 

And  every  soldier's  tread 
Fell  lightly  as  a  mother's 

'Round  her  baby's  cradle-bed  ; 
And  rank,  and  file,  and  column, 

So  softly  by  they  swept, 
It  seemed  a  ghostly  army 

Had  passed  him  as  he  slept ; 


PRO  MEMORIAL.  403 


But  mightier  than  enchantment 
Was  that  with  magic  move — 

The  spell  that  hushed  their  voices — 
Deep  reverence  and  love. 


PRO   MEMORIA. 

Am— There  is  rest  for  the  weary. 
BY    INA    M.    PORTER,    OF    ALABAMA. 

Lo  !  the  Southland  Queen,  emerging 

From  her  sad  and  wintry  gloom, 
Robes  her  torn  and  bleeding  bosom 

In  her  richest  orient  bloom  : 
CHORUS. — (Repeat  first  line  three  times.) 
For  her  weary  sons  are  resting 
By  the  Edenshore  ; 
They  have  won  the  crown  immortal, 
And  the  cross  of  death  is  o'er  ! 
Where  the  Oriflamme  is  burning 
On  the  starlit  Edenshore  ! 

Brightly  still,  in  gorgeous  glory, 
God's  great  jewel  lights  our  sky  ; 

Look  !  upon  the  heart's  white  dial 
There's  a  SHADOW  flitting  by  ! 

CHORUS. — But  the  weary  feet  are  resting,  etc. 


404  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Homes  are  dark  and  hearts  are  weary, 
Souls  are  numb  with  hopeless  pain  ; 
For  the  footfall  on  the  threshold 
Never  more  to  sound  again  ! 
CHORUS. — They  have  gone  from  us  forever, 
Aye,  for  evermore  ! 
We  must  win  the  crown  immortal, 
Follow  where  they  led  before, 
Where  the  Oriflamme  is  burning 
On  the  starlit  Edenshore. 

Proudly,  as  our  Southern  forests 

Meet  the  winter's  shafts  so  keen  : 
Time-defying  memories  cluster 

Round  our  hearts  in  living  green. 
CHORUS. — They  have  gone  from  us  forever,  etc. 

May  our  faltering  voices  mingle 

In  the  angel-chanted  psalm  ; 
May  our  earthly  chaplets  linger 

By  the  bright  celestial  palm. 
CHORUS. — They  have  gone  from  us  forever,  etc 

Crest  to  crest  they  bore  our  banner, 

Side  by  side  they  fell  asleep  ; 
Hand  in  hand  we  scatter  flowers, 

Heart  to  heart  we  kneel  and  weep  ! 
CHORUS. — They  have  gone  from  us  forever,  etc. 


THE  SOUTHERN  HOMES  IN  RUIN.  4.Q5 

When  the  May  eternal  dawneth 

At  the  living  God's  behest, 
We  will  quaff  divine  Nepenthe, 

We  will  share  the  Soldier's  rest. 
CHORUS. — Where  the  weary  feet  are  resting-,  etc. 

Where  the  shadows  are  uplifted 
'Neath  the  never-waning  sun, 
Shout  we,  Gloria  in  Excelsis  I 

We  have  lost,  but  ye  have  won  ! 
CHORUS. — Our  hearts  are  yours  forever, 
Aye,  for  evermore  ! 
Ye  have  won  the  crown  immortal, 
And  the  cross  of  death  is  o'er, 
Where  the  Oriflamme  is  burning 
On  the  starlit  Edenshore  ! 


THE   SOUTHERN  HOMES   IN  RUIN. 

BY  R.  B.  VANCE,  OF  NORTH  CAROLINA. 

"  We  know  a  great  deal  about  war  now  ;  but,  dear  readers,  the  Southern 
women  know  more.  Blood  has  not  dripped  on  our  doorsills  yet ;  shells 
have  not  burst  above  our  homesteads — let  us  pray  they  never  may. — Frank 
Leslie's  Illustrated. 

MANY  a  gray-haired  sire  has  died, 

As  falls  the  oak,  to  rise  no  more, 
Because  his  son,  his  prop,  his  pride, 

Breathed  out  his  last  all  red  with  gore. 


4-06  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

No  more  on  earth,  at  morn,  at  eve, 

Shall  age  and  youth,  entwined  as  one — 
Nor  father,  son,  for  either  grieve  — 
Life's  work,  alas,  for  both  is  done  1 


Many  a  mother's  heart  has  bled 

While  gazing  on  her  darling  child, 
As  in  its  tiny  eyes  she  read 

The  father's  image,  kind  and  mild  ; 
For  ne'er  again  his  voice  will  cheer 

The  widowed  heart,  which  mourns  him  dead  ; 
Nor  kisses  dry  the  scalding  tear, 

Fast  falling  on  the  orphan's  head  1 


Many  a  little  form  will  stray 

Adown  the  glen  and  o'er  the  hill, 
And  watch,  with  wistful  looks,  the  way 

For  him  whose  step  is  missing  still  ; 
And  when  the  twilight  steals  apace 

O'er  mead,  and  brook,  and  lonely  home, 
And  shadows  cloud  the  dear,  sweet  face — 

The  cry  will  be,  "  Oh,  papa,  come  !" 

And  many  a  home's  in  ashes  now, 

Where  joy  was  once  a  constant  guest, 

And  mournful  groups  there  are,  I  trow, 
With  neither  house  nor  place  of  rest ; " 


"RAPPAHANNOCK  ARMY  SO  NO."  407 

And  blood  is  on  the  broken  sill, 

Where  happy  feet  went  to  and  fro, 
And  everywhere,  by  field  and  hill, 

Are  sickening  sights  and  sounds  of  woe  ! 


There  is  a  God  who  rules  on  high, 

The  widow's  and  the  orphan's  friend, 
Who  sees  each  tear  and  hears  each  sigh, 

That  these  lone  hearts  to  Him  may  send 
And  when  in  wrath  He  tears  away 

The  reasons  vain  which  men  indite, 
The  record  book  will  plainest  say 

Who's  in  the  wrong,  and  who  is  right. 


"RAPPAHANNOCK  ARMY  SONG." 

BY   JOHN    C.    M?LEMORE. 

THE  toil  of  the  march  is  over — 

The  pack  will  be  borne  no  more — 
For  we've  come  for  the  help  of  Richmond, 

From  the  Rappahannock's  shore. 
The  foe  is  closing  round  us — 

We  can  hear  his  ravening  cry  ; 
So,  ho  !  for  fair  old  Richmond  ! 

Like  soldiers  we'll  do  or  die. 


408  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

We  have  left  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Full  many  a  league  away, 
And  our  mothers  and  sisters  miss  us, 

As  with  tearful  eyes  they  pray  ; 
But  this  will  repress  their  weeping, 

And  still  the  rising  sigh — 
For  all,  for  fair  old  Richmond, 

Have  come  to  do  or  die. 


We  have  come  to  join  our  brothers 

From  the  proud  Dominion's  vales, 
And  to  meet  the  dark-cheeked  soldier, 

Tanned  by  the  Tropic  gales  ; 
To  greet  them  all  full  gladly, 

With  hand  and  beaming  eye, 
And  to  swear,  for  fair  old  Richmond, 

We  all  will  do  or  die. 


The  fair  Carolina  sisters 

Stand  ready,  lance  in  hand, 
To  fight  as  they  did  in  an  older  war, 

For  the  sake  of  their  fatherland. 
The  glories  of  Sumter  arid  Bethel 

Have  raised  their  fame  full  high, 
But  they'll  fade,  if  for  fair  old  Richmond 

They  swear  not  to  do  or  die. 


"EAPPAHANNOCK  ARMY  SONG"  409 

Zollicoifer  looks  down  on  his  people, 

And  trusts  to  their  hearts  and  arms, 
To  avenge  the  blood  he  has  shed, 

In  the  midst  of  the  battle's  alarms. 
Alabamians,  remember  the  past, 

Be  the  "  South  at  Manassas,"  their  cry  ; 
As  onward  for  fair  old  Richmond, 

They  inarched  to  do  or  die. 


Brave  Bartow,  from  home  on  high, 

Calls  the  Empire  State  to  the  front, 
To  bear  once  more  as  she  has  borne 

With  glory  the  battle's  brunt. 
Mississippians  who  know  no  surrender, 

Bear  the  flag  of  the  Chief  on  high  ; 
For  he,  too,  for  fair  old  Richmond, 

Has  sworn  to  do  or  die. 


Fair  land  of  my  birth — sweet  Florida — 

Your  arm  is  weak,  but  your  soul 
Must  tell  of  a  purer,  holier  strength, 

When  the  drums  for  the  battle  roll. 
Look  within,  for  your  hope  in  the  combat. 

Nor  think  of  your  few  with  a  sigh — 
If  you  win  not  for  fair  old  Richmond, 

At  least  you  can  bravely  die. 
18* 


410  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Onward  all  !     Oh  !   band  of  brothers  ! 

The  beat  of  the  long  roll's  heard  ! 
And  the  hearts  of  the  columns  advancing, 

By  the  sound  of  its  music  is  stirred. 
Onward  all  !  and  never  return, 

Till  our  foes  from  the  Borders  fly — 
To  be  crowned  by  the  fair  of  old  Richmond, 

As  those  who  could  do  or  die. 
RICHMOND  ENQUIBER. 


THE  SOLDIER  IN  THE  RAIN. 

BY   JULIA    L.    KEYES. 

AH  me  !  the  rain  has  a  sadder  sound 

Than  it  ever  had  before  ; 
And  the  wind  more  plaintively  whistles  through 

The  crevices  of  the  door. 


We  know  we  are  safe  beneath  our  roof 
From  every  drop  that  fulls  ; 

And  we  feel  secure  and  blest,  within 
The  shelter  of  our  walls. 


Then  why  do  we  dread  to  hear  the  noise 
Of  the  rapid,  rushing  rain — 


THE  SOLDIER  IN  THE  RAIN. 

And  the  plash  of  the  wintry  drops,  that  beat 
Through  the  blinds,  on  the  window-pane  ? 

We  think  of  the  tents  on  the  lowly  ground, 

Where  our  patriot  soldiers  lie  ; 
And  the  sentry's  bleak  and  lonely  march, 

'Neath  the  dark  and  starless  sky. 

And  we  pray,  with  a  tearful  heart,  for  those 

Who  brave  for  us  yet  more — 
And  we  wish  this  war,  with  its  thousand  ills 

And  griefs,  was  only  o'er. 

We  pray  when  the  skies  are  bright  and  clear, 
When  the  winds  are  soft  and  warm — 

But  oh  !  we  pray  with  an  aching  heart 
'Mid  the  winter's  rain  and  storm. 

We  fain  would  lift  these  mantling  clouds 

That  shadow  our  sunny  clime  ; 
We  can  but  wait — for  we  know  there'll  be 

A  day,  in  the  coming  time, 

When  peace,  like  a  rosy  dawn,  will  flood 

Our  land  with  softest  light : 
Then — we  will  scarcely  hearken  the  rain 

In  the  dreary  winter's  night. 


POETRY  OF  TIU  SOUTH. 
MY   COUNTRY. 

BY  W.  D.  PORTER.  S.  C. 


Go,  read  the  stories  of  the  great  and  free, 
The  nations  on  the  long,  bright  roll  of  fame, 

Whose  noble  rage  has  baffled  the  decree 
Of  tyrants  to  despoil  their  life  and  name  ; 

ii. 

Whose  swords  have  flashed  like  lightning  in  the  eyes 
Of  robber  despots,  glorying  in  their  might, 

And  taught  the  world,  by  deeds  of  high  emprise, 
The  power  of  truth  and  sacredness  of  right : 

in. 

Whose  people,  strong  to  suffer  and  endure, 
In  faith  have  wrestled  till  the  blessing  came, 

And  won  through  woes  a  victory  doubly  sure, 

As  martyr  wins  his  crown  through  blood  and  flame. 

IV. 

The  purest  virtue  has  been  sorest  tried, 
Nor  is  there  glory  without  patient  toil ; 

And  he  who  woos  fair  Freedom  for  his  bride, 

Through  suffering  must  be  purged  of  stain  and  soil. 


"AFTER   THE  BATTLE." 

V. 

My  country  I  in  this  hour  of  trial  sore, 

When  in  the  balance  trembling  hangs  thy  fate, 

Brace  thy  great  heart  with  courage  to  the  core, 
Nor  let  one  jot  of  faith  or  hope  abate  ! 

IV. 

The  world's  bright  eye  is  fixed  upon  thee  still  ; 

Life,  honor,  fame — these  all  are  in  the  scale  : 
Endure  !  endure  !  endure  !  with  iron  will, 

And  by  the  truth  of  heaven,  thou  shalt  not  fail  ! 
PATRIOT  AND  MOUNTAINEER. 


"AFTER  THE   BATTLE" 

BY  MISS  AGNES  LEONARD. 


ALL  day  long  the  sun  had  wandered, 

Through  the  slowly  creeping  hours, 
And  at  last  the  stars  were  shining 

Like  some  golden-petalled  flowers 
Scattered  o'er  the  azure  bosom 

Of  the  glory-haunted  night, 
Flooding  all  the  sky  with  grandeur, 

Filling  all  the  earth  with  light, 


WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


And  the  fair  moon,  with  the  sweet  stars, 

Gleamed  amid  the  radiant  spheres 
Like  "  a  pearl  of  great  price"  shining 

Just  as  it  had  shone  for  years, 
On  the  young  land  that  had  risen, 

In  her  beauty  and  her  might, 
Like  some  gorgeous  superstructure 

Woven  in  the  dreams  of  night : 

in. 

With  her  "  cities  hung  like  jewels" 

On  her  green  and  peaceful  breast, 
With  her  harvest  fields  of  plenty, 

And  her  quiet  homes  of  rest. 
But  a  change  had  fallen  sadly 

O'er  the  young  and  beauteous  land, 
Brothers  on  the  field  fought  madly 

That  once  wandered  hand  in  hand. 

IV. 

And  "  the  hearts  of  distant  mountains 
Shuddered/'  with  a  fearful  wonder, 

As  the  echoes  burst  upon  them 
Of  the  cannon's  awful  thunder. 

Through  the  long  hours  waged  the  battle 
Till  the  setting  of  the  sun 


"AFTER   THE  BATTLE."  4]  5 

Dropped  a  seal  upon  the  record, 
That  the  day's  mad  work  was  done. 


v. 

Thickly  on  the  trampled  grasses 

Lay  the  battle's  awful  traces, 
'Mid  the  blood-stained  clover-blossoms 

Lay  the  stark  and  ghastly  faces, 
With  no  mourners  bending  downward 

O'er  a  costly  funeral  pall  ; 
And  the  dying  daylight  softly, 

With  the  starlight  watched  o'er  all. 


VI. 

And,  whore  eager,  joyous  footsteps 

Once  perchance  were  wont  to  pass, 
Ran  a  little  streamlet  making 

One  "  blue  fold  in  the  dark  grass  ;" 
And  where,  from  its  hidden  fountain, 

Clear  and  bright  the  brooklet  burst 
Two  had  crawled,  and  each  was  bending 

O'er  to  slake  his  burning  thirst. 


VII. 

Then  beneath  the  solemn  starlight 
Of  the  radiant  jewelled  skies, 


41G 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Both  had  turned,  and  were  intently 

Gazing  in  each  other's  eyes. 
Both  were  solemnly  forgiving — 

Hushed  the  pulse  of  passion's  breath- 
Calmed  the  maddening  thirst  for  battle, 

By  the  chilling  hand  of  death. 


VIII. 

Then  spoke  one,  in  bitter  anguish  : 

"  God  have  pity  on  my  wife, 
And  my  children,  in  New  Hampshire  ; 

Orphans  by  this  cruel  strife." 
And  the  other,  leaning  closer, 

Underneath  the  solemn  sky, 
Bowed  his  head  to  hide  the  moisture 

Gathering  in  his  downcast  eye  : 


IX. 

"  Pve  a  wife  and  little  daughter, 

'Mid  the  fragrant  Georgia  bloom," — 
Then  his  cry  rang  sharper,  wilder, 

"  Oh,  God  !  pity  all  their  gloom." 
And  the  wounded,  in  their  death-hour, 

Talking  of  the  loved  ones'  woes, 
Nearer  drew  unto  each  other, 

Till  they  were  no  longer  foes. 


"AFTER  THE  BATTLE." 
X. 

And  the  Georgian  listened  sadly 

As  the  other  tried  to  speak, 
While  the  tears  were  dropping1  softly 

O'er  the  pallor  of  his  cheek  : 
"  How  she  used  to  stand  and  listen, 

Looking  o'er  the  fields  for  me, 
Waiting,  till  she  saw  me  coming, 

'Neath  the  shadowy  old  plum-tree. 
Never  more  I'll  hear  her  laughter, 

As  she  sees  me  at  the  gate, 
And  beneath  the  plum-tree's  shadows, 

All  in  vain  for  me  she'll  wait." 


XI. 

Then  the  Georgian,  speaking  softly, 

Said  :  "A  brown-eyed  little  one 
Used  to  wait  among  the  roses, 

For  me,  when  the  day  was  done  ; 
And  amid  the  early  fragrance 

Of  those  blossoms,  fresh  and  sweet, 
Up  and  do\v*h  the  old  verandah 

I  would  chase  my  darling's  feet. 
But  on  earth  no  more  the  beauty 

Of  her  face  my  eye  shall  greet, 
Nevermore  Pll  hear  the  music 

Of  those  merry  pattering  feet — 


418  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Ah,  the  solemn  starlight,  falling 
On  the  far-off  Georgia  bloom, 

Tells  no  tale  unto  ray  darling 
Of  her  absent  father's  doom." 

XII. 

Through  the  tears  that  rose  between  them 
Both  were  trying  grief  to  smother, 

As  they  clasped  each  other's  fingers 
Whispering  :  "  Let's  forgive  each  other." 


xm. 

When  the  morning  sun  was  walking 

"  Up  the  gray  stairs  of  the  dawn," 
And  the  crimson  east  was  flushing 

All  the  forehead  of  the  morn, 
Pitying  skies  were  looking  sadly 

On  the  "  once  proud,  happy  land," 
On  the  Southron  and  the  Northman, 

Holding  fast  each  other's  hand. 
Fatherless  the  golden  tresses, 

Watching  'neath  the  old  plum-tree  ; 
Fatherless  the  little  Georgian 

Sporting  in  unconscious  glee. 
CHICAGO  JOURNAL  OF  COMMERCE,  June,  1868. 


OUR   CONFEDERATE  DEAD.  419 

OUR  CONFEDERATE  DEAD. 

WHAT   THE   HEART   OF   A    YOUNG   GIBL   SAID    TO   THE   DEAD   SOLDIER. 
BY    A    LADY    OF    AUGUSTA,  GEO. 

UNKNOWN  to  me,  brave  boy,  but  still  I  wreathe 
For  you  the  tenderest  of  wild  wood  flowers  ; 

And  o'er  your  tomb  a  virgin's  prayer  I  breathe, 
To  greet  the  pure  moon  and  the  April  showers. 

I  only  know,  I  only  care  to  know, 

You  died  for  me — for  me  and  country  bled  ; 

A  thousand  Springs  and  wild  December  snow 
Will  weep  for  one  of  all  the  SOUTHERN  DEAD. 

Perchance,  some  mother  gazes  up  the  skies, 

Wailing,  like  Rachel,  for  her  martyred  brave — 

Oh,  for  her  darling  sake,  my  dewy  eyes 
Moisten  the  turf  above  your  lowly  grave. 

The  cause  is  sacred,  when  our  maidens  stand 
Linked  with  sad  matrons  and  heroic  sires, 

Above  the  relics  of  a  vanquished  land 
And  light  the  torch  of  sanctifying  fires. 

Your  bed  of  honor  has  a  rosy  cope 
To  shimmer  back  the  tributary  stars  ; 


±20  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  every  petal  glistens  with  a  hope 

Where  Love  hath  blossomed  in  the  disk  of  Mars. 


Sleep  !    On  your  couch  of  glory  slumber  comes 
Bosomed  amid  the  archangelic  choir  ; 

Not  with  the  grumble  of  impetuous  drums 
Deepening  the  chorus  of  embattled  ire. 

Above  you  shall  the  oak  and  cedar  fling 
Their  giant  plumage  and  protecting  shade  ; 

For  you  the  song-bird  pause  upon  his  wing 
And  warble  requiems  ever  undismayed. 

Farewell !    And  if  your  spirit  wander  near 
To  kiss  this  plant  of  unaspiring  art — 

Translate  it,  even  in  the  heavenly  sphere, 
As  the  libretto  of  a  maiden's  heart. 


YE    CAVALIERS    OF   DIXIE. 

BY    BENJ.    F.    PORTER,    OF    ALABAMA. 

YE  Cavaliers  of  Dixie 
That  guard  our  Southern  shores, 
Whose  standards  brave  the  battle-storm 
That  round  the  border  roars- ; 


" YE  CAVALIERS  OF  DIXIE." 

Your  glorious  sabres  draw  again, 
And  charge  the  invading  foe  ; 
Reap  the  columns  deep 
Where  the  battle  tempests  blow, 
Where  the  iron  hail  in  floods  descends, 
And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

Ye  Cavaliers  of  Dixie  ! 

Though  dark  the  tempest  lower, 

No  arms  will  wear  a  tyrant's  chains  ! 

No  dastard  heart  will  cower  ! 

Bright  o'er  the  cloud  the  sign  will  rise, 

To  lead  to  victory  ; 

While  your  swords  reap  his  hordes, 

Where  the  battle-tempests  blow, 

And  the  iron  hail  in  floods  descends, 

And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

Ye  Cavaliers  of  Dixie  ! 
Though  Vicksburg's  towers  fall, 
Here  still  are  sacred  rights  to  shield  ! 
Your  wives,  your  homes,  your  all  ! 
With  gleaming  arms  advance  again, 
Drive  back  the  raging  foe, 
Nor  yield  your  native  field, 
While  the  battle-tempests  blow, 
And  the  iron  hail  in  floods  descends, 
And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Our  country  needs  no  ramparts, 
No  batteries  to  shield  ! 
Your  bosoms  are  her  bulwarks  strong, 
Breastworks  that  cannot  yield  ! 
The  thunders  of  your  battle-blades 
Shall  sweep  the  hated  foe, 
While  their  gore  stains  the  shore, 
Where  the  battle-tempests  blow, 
And  the  iron  hail  in  floods  descends, 
And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  rise  from  every  grave  ! 
Our  country  is  their  field  of  fame, 
They  nobly  died  to  save  ! 
Where  Johnson,  Jackson,  Tilghman  fell, 
Your  patriot  hearts  shall  glow  ; 
While  you  reap  columns  deep, 
Through  the  armies  of  the  foe, 
Where  the  battle-storm  is  raging  loud, 
And  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 

The  battle-flag  of  Dixie 

On  crimson  field  shall  flame, 

With  azure  cross,  and  silver  stars, 

To  light  her  sons  to  fame  1 

When  peace  with  olive-branch  returns, 

That  flag'i  white  folds  shall  glow, 


SONG   OF  SPRING  (1864.)  423 

Still  bright  on  every  height, 
Where  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, 
Where  battle-tempests  rage  no  more, 
Nor  bloody  torrents  flow. 

The  battle-flag  of  Dixie 

Shall  long  triumphant  wave, 

Where'er  the  storms  of  battle  roar, 

And  victory  crowns  the  brave  ! 

The  Cavaliers  of  Dixie  ! 

In  woman's  songs  shall  glow 

The  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, 

When  the  battle-tempests  rage  no  more, 

Nor  the  bloody  torrents  flow. 


SONG  OF  SPRING,   (1864.) 

BY   JOHN    A.    WAGENER,    OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

SPRING  has  come  !     Spring  has  come  ! 

The  brightening  earth,  the  sparkling  dew, 
The  bursting  buds,  the  sky  of  blue, 
The  mocker's  carol,  in  tree  and  hedge, 
Proclaim  anew  Jehovah's  pledge — 
"  So  long  as  man  shall  earth  retain, 
The  seasons  gone  shull  come  again." 


424  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Spring  has  come  !     Spring  has  come  ! 
We  have  her  here,  in  the  balmy  air, 
hi  the  blossoms  that  bourgeon  without  a  care ; 
The  violet  bounds  from  her  lowly  bed, 
And  the  jasmin  flaunts  with  a  lofty  head  ; 
All  nature,  in  her  baptismal  dress, 
Is  abroad — to  win,  to  soothe,  and  bless. 

Spring  has  come  !     Spring  has  come  ! 

Yes,  and  eternal  as  the  Lord, 

Who  spells  her  being  at  a  word  ; 

All  blest  but  man,  whose  passions  proud 

Wrap  Nature  in  her  bloody  shroud — 
His  heart  is  winter  to  the  core, 
His  spring,  alas  !  shall  come  no  more  1 


"WHAT   THE   VILLAGE   BELL   SAID.' 

BY  JOHN  c.  M'LEMORE,  OF  SOUTH  CAROLINA.* 

FULL  many  a  year  in  the  village  church, 

Above  the  world  have  I  made  my  home  ; 
And  happier  there,  than  if  I  had  hung 
High  up  in  the  air  in  a  golden  dome  ; 
For  I  have  tolled 
When  the  slow  hearse  rolled 

*  Mortally  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Seven  Pine§. 


"WHAT  THE   VILLAGE  BELL  SAID.11  425 

Its  burden  sad  to  my  door ; 

And  each  echo  that  woke, 

With  the  solemn  stroke, 
Was  a  sigh  from  the  heart  of  the  poor. 


I  know  the  great  bell  of  the  city  spire 
Is  a  far  prouder  one  than  such  as  I  ; 
And  its  deafening  stroke,  compared  with  mine, 
Is  thunder  compared  with  a  sigh  : 

But  the  shattering  note 

Of  his  brazen  throat, 
As  it  swells  on  the  Sabbath  air, 

Far  oftener  rings 

For  other  things 
Than  a  call  to  the  house  of  prayer. 


Brave  boy,  I  tolled  when  your  father  died, 

And  you  wept  while  my  tones  pealed  loud  ; 
And  more  gently  I  rung  when  the  lily-white  dame, 
Your  mother  dear,  lay  in  her  shroud  : 

And  I  sang  in  sweet  tone 

The  angels  might  own, 
When  your  sister  you  gave  to  your  friend  ; 

Oh  1  I  rang  with  delight, 

On  that  sweet  summer  night, 
When  they  vowed  they  would  love  to  the  end  ! 

19 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

But  a  base  foe  comes  from  the  regions  of  crime, 
With  a  heart  all  hot  with  the  flames  of  hell  ; 
Arid  the  tones  of  the  bell  you  have  loved  so  long 
No  more  on  the  air  shall  swell  : 

For  the  people's  chief, 

With  his  proud  belief 
That  his  country's  cause  is  God's  own, 

Would  change  the  song, 

The  hills  have  rung, 
To  the  thunder's  harsher  tone. 

Then  take  me  down  from  the  village  church, 

Where  in  peace  so  long  I  have  hung  ; 
But  I  charge  you,  by  all  the  loved  and  lost, 
JRemember  the  songs  I  have  sung. 

Remember  the  mound 

Of  holy  ground, 
Where  your  father  and  mother  lie  ; 

And  swear  by  the  love 

For  the  dead  above 
To  beat  your  foul  foe  or  die. 

Then  take  me  ;  but  when  (I  charge  you  this) 

You  have  come  to  the  bloody  field, 
That  the  bell  of  God,  to  a  cannon  grown, 
You  will  ne'er  to  the  foeman  yield. 
By  the  love  of  the  past, 
Be  that  hour  your  last, 


THE  TREE,    THE  SERPENT,  AND   THE  STAR.          427 

When  the  foe  has  reached  this  trust ; 

And  make  him  a  bed 

Of  patriot  dead, 
And  let  him  sleep  in  this  holy  dust. 


THE   TREE,  THE   SERPENT,  AND  THE  STAR, 

BY  A.  P.  GRAY,  OF  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

PROM  the  silver  sands  of  a  gleaming  shore, 

Where  the  wild  sea-waves  were  breaking, 
A  lofty  shoot  from  a  twining  root 

Sprang  forth  as  the  dawn  was  waking  ; 
And  the  crest,  though  fed  by  the  sultry  beam, 

(And  the  shaft  by  the  salt  wave  only,) 
Spread  green  to  the  breeze  of  the  curling  seas, 

And  rose  like  a  column  lonely. 

Then  hail  to  the  tree,  the  Palmetto  tree, 
Ensign  of  the  noble,  the  brave,  and  the  free. 


As  the  sea-winds  rustled  the  bladed  crest, 
And  the  sun  to  the  noon  rose  higher, 

A  serpent  came,  with  an  eye  of  flame, 
And  coiled  by  the  leafy  pyre  ; 

His  ward  he  would  keep  by  the  lonely  tree, 
To  guard  it  with  constant  devotion  ; 


428  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Oh,  sharp  was  the  fang*, "and  the  armed  clang", 
That  pierced  through  the  roar  of  the  ocean, 
And  guarded  the  tree,  the  Palmetto  tree, 
Ensign  of  the  noble,  the  brave,  and  the  free. 


Arid  the  day  wore  down  to  the  twilight  close, 

The  breeze  died  away  from  the  billow ; 
Yet  the  wakeful  clang  of  the  rattles  rang 

Anon  from  the  serpent's  pillow  ; 
When  I  saw  through  the  night  a  gleaming  star 

O'er  the  branching  summit  growing, 
Till  the  foliage  green  and  the  serpent's  sheen 

In  the  golden  light  were  glowing, 

That  hung  o'er  the  tree,  the  Palmetto  tree, 
Ensign  of  the  noble,  the  brave,  and  the  free. 


By  the  standard  cleave  every  loyal  son, 

When  the  drums'  long  roll  shall  rattle  ; 
Let  the  folds  stream  high  to  the  victor's  eye 

Or  sink  in  the  shock  of  the  battle. 
Should  triumph  rest  on  the  red  field  won, 

With  a  victor's  song  let  us  hail  it  ; 
If  the  battle  fail  and  the  star  grow  pale, 

Yet  never  in  shame  will  we  veil  it, 

But  cherish  the  tree,  the  Palmetto  tree, 
Ensign  of  the  noble,  the  brave,  and  the  free. 


SOUTHERN   WAR  HYMN.  4-29 


SOUTHERN   WAR  HYMN. 

BY    JOHN    A.  WAGENER,  OF    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

ARISE  !  arise  !  with  arm  of  might, 

Sons  of  our  sunny  home  ! 
Gird  on  the  sword  for  the  sacred  fight, 

For  the  battle-hour  hath  come  I 
Arise  !  for  the  felon  foe  draws  nigh 

In  battle's  dread  array  ; 
To  the  front,  ye  brave  !  let  the  coward  fly, 

>Tis  the  hero  that  bides  the  fray  I 


Strike  hot  and  hard,  my  noble  band, 

With  the  arm  of  fight  and  fire  ; 
Strike  fast  for  God  and  Fatherland, 

For  mother,  and  wife,  and  sire. 
Though  thunders  roar  and  lightnings  flash, 

Oh  !  Southrons,  never  fear, 
Ye  shall  turn  the  bolt  with  the  sabre's  clash, 

And  the  shaft  with  the  steely  spear. 


Bright  blooms  shall  wave  o'er  the  hero's  grave, 

While  the  craven  finds  no  rest  ; 
Thrice  cursed  the  traitor,  the  slave,  the  knave, 

While  thrice  is  the  hero  blessed 


4.30  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

To  the  front  in  the  fight,  ye  Southrons,  stand, 

Brave  spirits,  with  eagle  eye, 
And  standing  for  God  and  for  Fatherland. 

Ye  will  gallantly  do  or  die. 
CHARLESTON  COURIER. 


THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW. 

BY   JOHN    R.    THOMPSON,    OF    VIRGINIA. 

The  poem  which  follows  was  written  just  after  the  Seven  Days  of  Battle, 
near  Richmond,  in  1862.  It  was  suggested  by  the  appearance  of  a  rainbow, 
the  evening  before  the  grand  trial  of  strength  between  the  contending 
armies.  This  rainbow  overspread  the  eastern  sky,  and  exactly  defined  the 
position  of  the  Confederate  army,  as  seen  from  the  Capitol  at  Richmond. 

THE  warm,  weary  day,  was  departing — the  smile 
Of  the  sunset  gave  token  the  tempest  had  ceased  ; 

And  the  lightning  yet  fitfully  gleamed  for  a  while 
On  the  cloud  that  sank  sullen  and  dark  in  the  east. 


There  our  army — awaiting  the  terrible  fight 

Of  the  morrow — lay  hopeful,  and  watching,  and  still  ; 

Where  their  tents  all  the  region  had  sprinkled  with  white, 
From  river  to  river,  o'er  meadow  and  hill. 

While  above  them  the  fierce  cannonade  of  the  sky 
Blazed  and  burst  from  the  vapors  that  muffled  the  sun, 

Their  "counterfeit  clamors"  gave  forth  no  reply  ; 
And  slept  till  the  battle,  the  charge  in  each  gun. 


THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW.  43 \ 

When  lo  !  on  the  cloud,  a  miraculous  thing  ! 

Broke  in  beauty  the  rainbow  our  host  to  enfold  I 
The  centre  o'erspread  by  its  arch,  and  each  wing 

Suffused  with  its  azure  and  crimson  and  gold. 

Blest  omen  of  victory,  symbol  divine 

Of  peace  after  tumult,  repose  after  pain  ; 
How  sweet  and  how  glowing  with  promise  the  sign, 

To  eyes  that  should  never  behold  it  again  ! 

For  the  fierce  flame  of  war  on  the  morrow  flashed  out, 
And  its  thunder-peals  filled  all  the  tremulous  air  : 

Over  slippery  intrenchment  and  reddened  redoubt, 
Rang  the  wild  cheer  of  triumph,  the  cry  of  despair. 

Then  a  long  week  of  glory  and  agony  came — 
Of  mute  supplication,  and  yearning,  and  dread  ; 

When  day  unto  day  gave  the  record  of  fame, 
And  night  unto  night  gave  the  list  of  its  dead. 

We  had  triumphed — the  foe  had  fled  back  to  his  ships — 
His  standard  in  rags  and  his  legions  a  wreck — 

But  alas  !  the  stark  faces  and  colorless  lips 

Of  our  loved  ones,  gave  triumph's  rejoicing  a  check. 

Not  yet,  oh  not  yet,  as  a  sign  of  release, 

Had  the  Lord  set  in  mercy  his  bow  in  the  cloud  ; 


432  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Not  yet  had  the  Comforter  whispered  of  peace 

To  the  hearts  that  around  us  lay  bleeding  and  bowed. 

But  the  promise  was  given — the  beautiful  arc, 

With  its  brilliant  profusion  of  colors,  that  spanned 

The  sky  on  that  exquisite  eve,  was  the  mark 
Of  the  Infinite  Love  overarching  the  land  : 

And  that  Love,  shining  richly  and  full  as  the  day, 

Through  the  tear-drops  that  moisten  each  martyr's  proud 
pall, 

On  the  gloom  of  the  past  the  bright  bow  shall  display 
Of  Freedom,  Peace,  Victory,  bent  over  all. 


STONEWALL   JACKSON. 

Mortally  wounded — "  The  Brigade  must  not  know,  sir." 

"  WHO'VE  ye  got  there  ?" — "  Only  a  dying  brother, 

Hurt  in  the  front  just  now." 
"  Good  boy  !  he'll  do.     Somebody  tell  his  mother 

Where  he  was  killed,  and  how." 

"  Whom  have  you  there  ?" — "  A  crippled  courier,  major, 

Shot  by  mistake,  we  hear. 
He  was  with  Stonewall."     "  Cruel  work  they've  made  here 

Quick  with  him  to  the  rear  !" 


DIRGE  FOR  ASHBY.  433 

"  Well,  who  comes  next  ?" — "  Doctor,  speak  low,  speak  low, 
sir  ; 

Don't  let  the  men  find  out. 
It's  STONEWALL!"    "  God  !"    " The  brigade  must  not  know,  sir, 

While  there's  a  foe  about." 

Whom  have  we  here — shrouded  in  martial  manner, 

Crowned  with  a  martyr's  charm  ? 
A  grand  dead  hero,  in  a  living  banner, 

Born  of  his  heart  and  arm  : 

The  heart  whereon  his  cause  hung — see  how  clingeth 

That  banner  to  his  bier  ! 
The  arm  wherewith  his  cause  struck — hark  !  how  ringeth 

His  trumpet  in  their  rear  1 

What  have  we  left  ?     His  glorious  inspiration, 

His  prayers  in  council  met. 
Living,  he  laid  the  first  stones  of  a  nation ; 

And  dead,  he  builds  it  yet. 


DIRGE  FOR  ASHBY. 

BY  MRS.  M.  J.  PRESTON. 

HEARD  ye  that  thrilling  word- 
Accent  of  dread — 
Fall,  like  a  thunderbolt, 

Bowing  each  head  V 
19* 


£34  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Over  the  battle  dun, 
Over  each  booming  gun — 
Ashby,  our  bravest  one  ! 
Ashby  is  dead  ! 

Saw  ye  the  veterans — 
Hearts  that  had  kuo\vn 

Never  a  quail  of  fear, 
Never  a  groan — 

Sob,  though  the  fight  they  win, 

Tears  their  stern  eyes  within — 

Ashby,  our  Paladin, 
Ashby  is  dead  ! 

Dash,  dash  the  tear  away — 
Crush  down  the  pain  ! 

Dulce  et  decus,  be 
Fittest  refrain  ! 

Why  should  the  dreary  pall, 

Round  him,  be  flung  at  all  ? 

Did  not  our  hero  fall 
Gallantly  slain  I 


Catch  the  last  words  of  cheer, 
Dropt  from  his  tongue  ; 

Over  the  battle's  din, 
Let  them  be  rung  ! 


DIRGE  FOR  ASHBY.  435 

"  Follow  me  !  follow  me  /" 
Soldier,  oh  !   could  there  be 
Paean  or  dirge  for  thee, 
Loftier  sung-  ? 


Bold  as  the  lion's  heart — 

Dauntlessly  brave — 
Knightly  as  knightliest 

Bayard  might  crave  ; 
Sweet,  with  all  Sydney's  grace, 
Tender  as  Hampden's  face, 
Who  now  shall  fill  the  space, 

Void  by  his  grave  ? 


'Tis  not  one  broken  heart, 

Wild  with  dismay — 
Crazed  in  her  agony, 

Weeps  o'er  his  clay  I 
Ah  I  from  a  thousand  eyes, 
Flow  the  pure  tears  that  rise- 
Widowed  Virginia  lies 
Stricken  to-day  ! 

Yet,  charge  as  gallantly, 

Ye,  whom  he  led  ! 
Jackson,  the  victor,  still 

Leads,  at  your  head  ! 


436  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Heroes  !  be  battle  done 
Bravelier,  every  one 
Nerved  by  the  thought  alone — 
Ashby  is  dead  ! 


SACRIFICE. 


ANOTHER  victim  for  the  sacrifice  ! 

Oh  !  my  own  mother  South, 

How  terrible  this  wail  above  thy  youth, 

Dying  at  the  cannon's  mouth, — 
And  for  no  crime — no  vice — 
No  scheme  of  selfish  greed — no  avarice, 
Or  insolent  ambition,  seeking  power  ; — 
But  that,  with  resolute  soul  and  will  sublime, 

They  made  their  proud  election  to  be  free, — 
To  leave  a  grand  inheritance  to  time, 

And  to  their  sons  and  race,  of  liberty  ! 

ii. 

Oh  1  widow'd  woman,  sitting  in  thy  weeds, 

With  thy  young  brood  around  thee,  sad  and  lone — - 

Thy  fancy  sees  thy  hero  where  he  bleeds, 
And  still  thou  hear'st  his  moan  1 


XONNET. 


Dying  he  calls  on  lliee  —  again  —  again  ! 

With  blessing  and  fond  memories.     Be  of  cheer  ; 
He  has  not  died  —  he  did  not  bless  —  in  vain  : 
For,  in  the  eternal  rounds  of  GOD,  HE  squares 
The  account  with  sorrowing  hearts  ;  and  soothes  the  fears, 
And  leads  the  orphans  home,  and  dries  the  widow's  tears. 
CHARLESTON  MERCURY. 


SONNET. 

WRITTEN  IN  1864. 

WHAT  right  to  freedom  when  we  are  not  free  ? 

When  all  the  passions  goad  us  into  lust ; 

When,  for  the  worthless  spoil  we  lick  the  dust, 
And  while  one-half  our  people  die,  that  we 
May  sit  with  peace  and  freedom  'neath  our  tree, 
The  other  gloats  for  plunder  and  for  spoil : 
Bustles  through  daylight,  vexes  night  with  toil, 
Cheats,  swindles,  lies  and  steals  ! — Shall  such  things  be 
Endowed  with  such  grand  boons  as  Liberty 

Brings  in  her  train  of  blessings  ?     Should  we  pray 

That  such  as  these  should  still  maintain  the  sway — 
These  soulless,  senseless,  heartless  enemies 
Of  all  that's  good  and  great,  of  all  that's  wise, 
Worthy  on  earth,  or  in  the  Eternal  Eyes  ! 
CHARLESTON  MEROURY. 


4-38  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

GRAVE   OF   A.   SYDNEY  JOHNSTON. 

BY  J.  B.  SYNNOTT. 

^THE  Lone  Star  State  secretes  the  clay 

Of  him  who  led  on  Shiloh's  field, 
Where  mourning  wives  will  stop  to  pray, 
And  maids  a  weeping-  tribute  yield. 

In  after  time,  when  spleen  and  strife 

Their  madd'ning  flame  shall  have  expired, 

The  noble  deeds  that  gemm'd  this  life 
By  Age  and  Youth  will  be  admired. 

As  o'er  the  stream  the  boatmen  rove 
By  Pittsburg  Bend  at  early  Spring, 

They'll  show  with  moistening  eye  the  grave 
Where  havoc  spread  her  sable  wing. 

There,  'neath  the  budding  foliage  green, 
Ere  Night  evolved  her  dewy  breath, 

While  Victory  smiled  upon  the  scene, 
Our  Chieftain  met  the  blow  of  death. 

Great  men  to  come  will  bless  the  brave  ; 

The  soldier,  bronzed  in  War's  career, 
Shall  weave  a  chaplet  o'er  his  grave, 

While  Mem'ry  drops  the  glist'ning  tear. 


DOUBTFUL   OF  YOUR  FATHERLANDS          439 


Though  envy  wag  her  scorpion  tongue, 
The  march  of  Time  shall  find  his  fame  ; 

Where  Bravery's  loved  and  Glory's  sung, 
There  children's  lips  shall  lisp  his  name. 


NOT  DOUBTFUL  OF  YOCR  FATHERLAND.1 


NOT  doubtful  of  your  fatherland, 

Or  of  the  God  who  gave  it  ; 
On,  Southrons  !  'gainst  the  hireling  band 
That  struggle  to  enslave  it ; 

Ring  boldly  out 

Your  battle-shout, 
Charge  fiercely  'gainst  these  felon  hordes 

One  hour  of  strife 

Is  freedom's  life, 
And  glory  hangs  upon  your  swords  I 

n. 

A  thousand  mothers'  matron  eyes, 

Wives,  sisters,  daughters  weeping, 
Watch,  where  your  virgin  banner  flies, 
To  battle  fiercely  sweeping  : 
Though  science  fails, 
The  steel  prevails, 


4-40  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

When  hands  that  wield,  own  hearts  of  oak 
These,  though  the  wall 
Of  stone  may  fall, 

Grow  stronger  with  each  hostile  stroke. 

in. 

The  faith  that  feels  its  cause  as  true, 

The  virtue  to  maintain  it ; 
The  soul  to  brave,  the  will  to  do, — 
These  seek  the  fight,  and  gain  it  ! 

The  precious  prize 

Before  your  eyes, 
The  all  that  life  conceives  of  charm, 

Home,  freedom,  life, 

Child,  sister,  wife, 
All  rest  upon  your  soul  and  arm  ! 

IV. 

And  what  the  foe,  the  felon  race, 

That  seek  your  subjugation  ? 
The  scum  of  Europe,  her  disgrace, 
The  lepers  of  the  nation. 

And  what  the  spoil 

That  tempts  their  toil, 
The  bait  that  goads  them  on  to  fight  ? 

Lust,  crime,  and  blood, 

Each  fiendish  mood 
That  prompts  and  follows  appetite. 


ONLY  A  SOLDIERS  GRAVE. 

V. 

Shall  such  prevail,  arid  shall  you  fail, 

Asserting  cause  so  holy  ? 
With  souls  of  might,  go,  seek  the  fight, 
Arid  crush  these  wretches  lowly. 
On,  with  the  cry, 
To  do  or  die, 

As  did,  in  darker  days,  your  sires, 
Nor  stay  the  blow, 
Till  every  foe, 

Down  stricken,  in  your  path,  expires  ! 
CHARLESTON  MERCURY. 


ONLY  A  SOLDIER'S  GRAYE. 

BY    S.    A.    JONES,    OF    ABERDEEN,    MISSISSIPPI. 

ONLY  a  soldier's  grave  !     Pass  by, 
For  soldiers,  like  other  mortals,  die. 
Parents  he  had — they  are  far  away  ; 
No  sister  weeps  o'er  the  soldier's  clay ; 
No  brother  comes,  with  a  tearful  eye  : 
It's  only  a  soldier's  grave — pass  by. 

True,  he  was  loving,  and  young,  and  brave, 
Though  no  glowing  epitaph  honors  his  grave  ; 
No  proud  recital  of  virtues  known, 
Of  griefs  endured,  or  of  triumphs  won ; 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

No  tablet  of  marble,  or  obelisk  high  ; — 
Only  a  soldier's  grave — pass  by. 

Yet  bravely  he  wielded  his  sword  in  fight, 
And  he  gave  his  life  in  the  cause  of  right ! 
When  his  hope  was  high,  and  his  youthful  dream 
As  warm  as  the  sunlight  on  yonder  stream  ; 
His  heart  unvexed  by  sorrow  or  sigh  ; — 
Yet,  'tis  only  a  soldier's  grave  : — pass  by. 

Yet,  should  we  mark  it — the  soldier's  grave, 
Some  one  may  seek  him  in  hope  to  save  ! 
Some  of  the  dear  ones,  far  away, 
Would  bear  him  home  to  his  native  clay : 
'Twere  sad,  indeed,  should  they  wander  nigh, 
Find  not  the  hillock,  and  pass  him  by. 


THE  GUERRILLA  MARTYRS. 

i. 

AY,  to  the  doom — the  scaffold  and  the  chain, — 
To  all  your  cruel  tortures,  bear  them  on, 

Ye  foul  and  coward  Hangmen  ; — but  in  vain  ! — 
Ye  cannot  touch  the  glory  they  have  won — 

And  win — thus  yielding  up  the  martyr's  breath 
For  freedom  ! — Theirs  is  a  triumphant  death  !- 


THE  GUERRILLA  MARTYRS.  443 

A  sacred  pledge  from  Nature,  that  her  womb 

Still  keeps  some  sacred  fires  ; — that  yet  shall  burst, 
Even  from  the  reeking  ravage  of  their  doom, 

As  glorious — ay,  more  glorious — than  the  first  ! 
Exult,  shout,  triumph  !     Wretches,  do  your  worst ! 

'Tis  for  a  season  only  !     There  shall  come 
An  hour  when  ye  shall  feel  you rselves  accurst  ; 

When  the  dread  vengeance  of  a  century 
Shall  reap  its  harvest  in  a  single  day  ; 

And  ye  shall  howl  in  horror  ; — and,  to  die, 
Shall  be  escape  and  refuge  !     Ye  may  slay  ; — 

But  to  be  cruel  and  brutal,  does  riot  make 
Ye  conquerors  ;  and  the  vulture  yet  shall  prey 

On  living  hearts  ;  and  vengeance  fiercely  slake 
The  unappeasable  appetite  ye  wake, 

In  the  hot  blood  of  victims,  that  have  been, 
Most  eager,  binding  freemen  to  the  stake, — 

Most  greedy,  in  the  orgies  of  this  sin  ! 


ii. 

Ye  slaughter,— do  ye  triumph  ?     Ask  your  chains, 

Ye  Sodom-hearted  butchers  ! — turn  your  eyes, 
Where  reeks  yon  bloody  scaffold  ;  and  the  pains, 

Ungroaned,  of  a  true  martyr,  ere  he  dies, 
Attest  the  damned  folly  of  your  crime, 

Now  at  its  carnival  !     His  spirit  flies, 
Unscathed  by  all  your  fires,  through  every  clime, 

Into  the  world's  wide  bosom.     Thousands  rise, 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


Prompt  ut  its  call,  and  principled  to  strike 
The  tyrants  and  the  tyrannies  alike  !  — 
Voices,  that  doom  ye,  speak  in  all  your  deeds, 

And  cry  to  heaven,  arm  earth,  and  kindle  hell  1 
A  host  of  freemen,  where  one  martyr  bleeds, 

Spring  from  his  place  of  doom,  and  make  his  knell 
The  toscin,  to  arouse  a  myriad  race, 
T'avenge  Humanity's  wrong,  and  wipe  off  man's  disgrace  ! 


We  mourn  not  for  our  martyrs  !— for  they  perish, 

As  the  good  perish,  for  a  deathless  faith  : 
Their  glorious  memories  men  will  fondly  cherish, 

In  terms  and  signs  that  shall  ennoble  death  ! 
Their  blood  becomes  a  principle,  to  guide, 

Onward,  forever  onward,  in  proud  flow, 
Restless,  resistless,  as  the  ocean  tide, 

The  Spirit  heaven  yields  freedom  here  below  ! 
How  should  we  mourn  the  martyrs,  who  arise, 
Even  from  the  stake  and  scaffold,  to  the  skies  ; — 
And  take  their  thrones,  as  slars  ;  and  o'er  the  night, 

Shed  a  new  glory  ;  and  to  other  souls, 
Shine  out  with  blessed  guidance,  and  true  light, 

Which  leads  successive  races  to  their  goals  ! 
CHARLESTON  MEBCTIBT. 


"LIBER A  NOS,    0  DOMINE."  445 

"LIBERA   NOS,   O  DOMINE!" 

BY  JAMES  BARROX  HOPE. 

WHAT  !  ye  hold  yourselves  as  freemen  ? 

Tyrants  love  just  such  as  ye  ! 
Go  !  abate  your  lofty  manner  ! 
Write  upon  the  State's  old  banner, 

"  A  furore  Normanorwn, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

Sink  before  the  federal  altar, 

Each  one  low,  on  bended  knee, 
Pray,  with  lips  that  sob  and  falter, 
This  prayer  from  the  coward's  psalter,— 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !" 

But  ye  hold  that  quick  repentance 

In  the  Northern  mind  will  be  ; 
This  repentance  comes  no  sooner 
Than  the  robbers  did,  at  Luna  ! 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine!" 

lie  repented  him: — the  Bishop 
Gave  him  absolution  free  ; 


446  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Poured  upon  him  sacred  chrism 
In  the  pomp  of  his  baptism. 
"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

He  repented  ; — then  he  sickened  ! 
Was  he  pining  for  the  sea? 

In  extremis  was  he  shriven, 

The  viaticum  was  given, 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !" 

Then  the  old  cathedral's  choir 

Took  the  plaintive  minor  key  ; 
With  the  Host  upraised  before  him, 
Down  the  marble  aisles  they  bore  him  ; 
"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine!" 

While  the  bishop  and  the  abbot — 

All  the  monks  of  high  degree, 

Chanting  praise  to  the  Madonna, 

Came  to  do  him  Christian  honor  ! 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  no*,  0  Domine  !" 

Now  the  miserere's  cadence, 
Takes  the  voices  of  the  sea  ; 


"LIBER A  NOS,    0  DOMINE."  447 

As  the  music-billows  quiver, 
See  the  dead  freebooter  shiver  1 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !" 

Is  it  that  these  intonations 

Thrill  him  thus  from  head  to  knee  ? 

Lo,  his  cerements  burst  asunder  ! 

'Tis  a  sight  of  fear  and  wonder  ! 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine!" 

Fierce,  he  stands  before  the  bishop, 

Dark  as  shape  of  Destinie. 
Hark  I  a  shriek  ascends,  appalling-, — 
Down  the  prelate  goes — dead — falling  ! 

"  A  fur  ore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine!" 

Hastings  lives  !     He  was  but  feigning  ! 

What !     Repentant  ?     Never  he  ! 
Down  he  smites  the  priests  and  friars, 
And  the  city  lights  with  fires  ! 

11 A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !" 

-A  h  !  the  children  and  the  maidens, 
JTis  in  vain  they  strive  to  flee  ! 


448  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Where  the  white-haired  priests  lie  bleeding1, 
Is  no  place  for  woman's  pleading. 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  !" 


Louder  swells  the  frightful  tumult — 

Pallid  Death  holds  revelrie  I 
Dies  the  organ's  mighty  clamor, 
By  the  horseman's  iron  hammer  I 

"  A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine !" 

So  they  thought  that  he'd  repented  ! 

Had  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree, 
He  had  not  deserved  their  pity, 
And  they  had  not — lost  their  city. 
"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

For  the  moral  in  this  story, 

Which  is  plain  as  truth  can  be  : 
If  we  trust  the  North's  relenting, 
We  shall  shriek — too  late  repenting — 
"  A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /"  * 

*  For  this  incident  in  the  life  of  the  sea-robber,  Hastings,  see  Mil 
man's  History  of  Latin  Christianity. 


THE  KNELL  SHALL  SOUND  ONGE  MORE.     449 


THE  KNELL   SHALL   SOUND   ONCE   MORE. 

I  KNOW  that  the  knell  shall  sound  once  more, 

And  the  dirge  be  sung  o'er  a  bloody  grave  ; 
And  there  shall  be  storm  on  the  beaten  shore, 

And  there  shall  be  strife  on  the  stormy  wave  ; 
And  we  shall  wail,  with  a  mighty  wail, 

And  feel  the  keen  sorrow  through  many  years, 
But  shall  not  our  banner  at  last  prevail, 

And  our  eyes  be  dried  of  tears  ? 

There's  a  bitter  pledge  for  each  fruitful  tree, 

And  the  nation  whose  course  is  long  to  run, 
Must  make,  though  in  anguish  still  it  be, 

The  tribute  of  many  a  noble  son  ; 
The  roots  of  each  mighty  shaft  must  grow 

In  the  blood-red  fountains  of  mighty  hearts  ; 
And  to  conquer  the  right  from  a  bloody  foe, 

Brings  a  pang  as  when  soul  and  body  parts  ! 

But  the  blood  and  the  pang  are  the  need,  alas  ! 

To  strengthen  the  sovereign  will  that  sv;ays 
The  generations  that  rise,  and  pass 

To  the  full  fruition  that  crowns  their  days  ! 
'Tis  still  in  the  strife,  they  must  grow  to  life  : 

And  sorrow  shall  strengthen  the  soul  for  care  ; 
And  the  freedom  sought  must  ever  be  bought 

By  the  best  blood-offerings,  held  most  dear. 


450  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Heroes,  the  noblest,  shall  still  be  first 

To  mount  the  red  altar  of  sacrifice  ; 
Homes  the  most  sacred  shall  fare  the  worst, 

Ere  we  conquer  and  win  the  precious  prize  ! — 
The  struggle  may  last  for  a  thousand  years, 

And  only  with  blood  shall  the  field  be  bought  ; 
But  the  sons  shall  inherit,  through  blood  and  tears, 

The  birth-right  for  which  their  old  fathers  fought. 
CHARLESTON  MEBCCRY. 


GENDRON  PALMER,  OF  THE  HOLCOMBE  LEGION 

BY    INA    M.  PORTER,   OF    ALABAMA. 

HE  sleeps  upon  Virginia's  strand, 
While  comrades  of  the  Legion  stand 
With  arms  reversed — a  mournful  baud — 

Around  his  early  bier  ! 
His  war-horse  paws  the  shaking  ground, 
The  volleys  ring — they  close  around — 
And  on  the  white  brow,  laurel-bound, 

Falls  many  a  soldier's  tear. 


Up,  stricken  mourners  !  look  on  high, 
Loud  anthems  rend  the  echoing  sky, 


BEND  RON  PALMER,    OF  THE  HOL  COMBE  LEGION.    45  \ 

Re-born  where  heroes  never  die — 

The  warrior  is  at  rest ! 
Gone  is  the  weary,  pain-traced  frown  ; 
Life's  march  is  o'er,  his  arms  cast  down, 
His  plumes  replaced  by  shining  crown, 

The  red  cross  on  his  breast  ! 


Though  Gendron's  arm  is  with  the  dust, 
Let  not  his  blood-stained  weapon  rust, 
Bequeathed  to  one  who'll  bear  the  trust, 

Where  Southern  banners  fly ! 
Some  brave,  who  followed  where  he  led- 
Aye,  swear  him  o'er  the  martyred  dead, 
To  avenge  each  drop  of  blood  he  shed, 

Or,  like  him,  bravely  die  ! 

He  deemed  a  death  for  honor  sweet. — 
And  thus  he  fell  ! — 'Tis  doubly  meet, 
Our  flag  should  be  his  winding-sheet, 

Proud  banner  of  the  free  ! 
Oh,  let  his  honored  form  be  laid 
Beneath  the  loved  Palmetto's  shade  ; 
His  praises  sung  by  Southern  maid, 

While  flows  the  broad  San  tee  ! 

We  come  around  his  urn  to  twine 
Sweet  clusters  of  the  jasmine  vine, 


452  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Culled  where  our  tropic  sunbeams  shine, 
From  skies  deep-dyed  and  bright ; 

And,  kneeling,  vow  no  right  to  yield  ! — 

On,  brothers,  on  ! — Fight  !  win  the  field  ! 

Or  dead  return  on  battered  shield, 
As  martyrs  for  the  right  ! 

Where  camp-fires  light  the  reddened  sod, 
The  grief-bowed  Legion  kneel  to  God, 
In  Palmer's  name,  and  by  his  blood, 

They  swell  the  battle-cry  ; 
We'll  sheathe  no  more  our  dripping  steel, 
'Till  tyrants  Southern  vengeance  feel, 
And  menial  hordes  as  suppliants  kneel, 

Or,  terror-stricken,  fly  ! 


MUMFORD,  THE   MARTYR   OF   NEW  ORLEANS. 

BY  INA  M.  PORTER,  OF    ALABAMA. 

WHERE  murdered  Mum  ford  lies, 
Bewailed  in  bitter  sighs, 
Low-bowed  beneath  the  flag  he  loved, 
Martyrs  of  Liberty, 
Defenders  of  the  Free  ! 
Come,  humbly  nigh, 
And  learn  to  die  ! 


MUMFORD,   THE  MARTYR   OF  NEW  ORLEANS.       4.53 

Ah,  Freedom,  on  that  day, 

Turned  fearfully  away, 

While  pitying  angels  lingered  near, 

To  gaze  upon  the  sod, 

Red  with  a  martyr's  blood  ; 

And  woman's  tear 

Fell  on  his  bier  ! 

0  God  !  that  he  should  die 
Beneath  a  Southern  sky  ! 
Upon  a  felon's  gallows  swung, 
Murdered  by  tyrant  hand, — 
While  round  a  helpless  band, 
On  Butler's  name 
Poured  scorn  and  shame. 

But  hark  !  loud  pseaus  fly 

From  earth  to  vaulted  sky, 

He's  crowned  at  Freedom's  holy  throne  ! 

List !  sweet-voiced  Israfel* 

Tolls  far  the  martyr's  knell  I 

Shout,  Southrons,  high, 

Our  battle  cry  ! 

Come,  all  of  Southern  blood, 
Come,  kneel  to  Freedom's  God  ! 

*  "  The  sweetest- voiced  angel  around  the  throne  of  God." — Oriental- 
Legend. 


454  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Here  at  her  crimsoned  altar  swear  ! 
Accursed  for  evermore 
The  flag  that  Mumford  tore, 
And  o'er  his  grave 
Our  colors  wave  1 


THE  FOE  AT  THE  GATES.— CHARLESTON. 

BY   J.  DICKSON    BRUNS,  M.  D. 

RING  round  her  !  children  of  her  glorious  skies, 

Whom  she  hath  nursed  to  stature  proud  and  great ; 

Catch  one  last  glance  from  her  imploring  eyes, 

Then  close  your  ranks  and  face  the  threatening  fate. 


Ring  round  her  I  with  a  wall  of  horrent  steel 
Confront  the  foe,  nor  mercy  ask  nor  give  ; 

And  in  her  hour  of  anguish  let  her  feel 

That  ye  can  die  whom  she  has  taught  to  live. 


Ring  round  her  !  swear,  by  every  lifted  blade, 

To  shield  from  wrong  the  mother  who  gave  you  birth  ; 

That  never  villain  hand  on  her  be  laid, 

Nor  base  foot  desecrate  her  hallowed  hearth. 


THE  FOE  AT  THE  GATES.— CHARLESTON.  455 

See  how  she  thrills  all  o'er  with  noble  shame, 

As  through  deep  sobs  she  draws  the  laboring  breath, 

Her  generous  brow  and  bosom  all  aflame 

At  the  bare  thought  of  insult,  worse  than  death. 


And  stained  and  rent  her  snowy  garments  are  ; 

The  big  drops  gather  on  her  pallid  face, 
Gashed  with  great  wounds  by  cowards  who  strove  to  mar 

The  beauteous  form  that  spurned  their  foul  embrace. 


And  still  she  pleads,  oh  !  how  she  pleads,  with  prayers 

And  bitter  tears,  to  every  loving  child 
To  stand  between  her  and  the  doom  she  fears, 

To  keep  her  fame  untarnished,  uudefiled  ! 


Curst  be  the  dastard  who  shall  halt  or  doubt  \ 
And  doubly  damned  who  casts  one  look  behind  ! 

Ye  who  are  men  !  with  unsheathed  sword,  and  shout, 
Up  with  her  banner  !  give  it  to  the  wind. 


Peal  your  wild  slogan,  echoing  far  and  wide, 

Till  every  ringing  avenue  repeat 
The  gathering  cry,  and  Ashley's  angry  tide 

Calls  to  the  sea-waves  beating  round  her  feet. 


4.56  WAR  POETRY  OF  TEE  SOUTH. 

Sons,  to  the  rescue  !  spurred  and  belted,  come  ! 

Kneeling,  with  clasp'd  hands,  she  invokes  you  now 
By  the  sweet  memories  of  your  childhood's  home, 

By  every  manly  hope  and  filial  vow, 


To  save  her  proud  soul  from  that  loathed  thrall 
Which  yet  her  spirit  cannot  brook  to  name  ; 

Or,  if  her  fate  be  near,  and  she  must  fall, 

Spare  her — she  sues — the  agony  and  the  shame. 


From  all  her  fanes  let  solemn  bells  be  tolled, 
Heap  with  kind  hands  her  costly  funeral  pyre, 

And  thus,  with  paean  sung  and  anthern  rolled, 
Give  her,  unspotted,  to  the  God  of  Fire. 


Gather  around  her  sacred  ashes  then, 

Sprinkle  the  cherished  dust  with  crimson  rain, 

Die  1  as  becomes  a  race  of  free-born  men, 

Who  will  not  crouch  to  wear  the  bondman's  chain, 


So,  dying,  ye  shall  win  a  high  renown, 
If  not  in  life,  at  least  by  death,  set  free — 

And  send  her  fame,  through  endless  ages  down, 
The  last  grand  holocaust  of  liberty. 


"SA  VANNAH."  457 

SAVANNAH  FALLEN. 

BY  ALETHEA  S.  BURROUGHS,  OF  GEORGIA. 


BOWING  her  head  to  the  dust  of  the  earth, 

Smitten  and  stricken  is  she, 
Light  after  light  gone  out  from  her  hearth, 

Son  after  son  from  her  knee. 
Bowing  her  head  to  the  dust  at  her  feet, 

Weeping  her  beautiful  slain, 
Silence  !  keep  silence,  for  aye  in  the  street, 

See  !  they  are  coming  again. 

ii. 

Coming  again,  oh  !  glorious  ones, 

Wrapped  in  the  flag  of  the  free  ; 
Queen  of  the  South  !  bright  crowns  for  thy  sons, 

Only  the  cypress  for  thee ! 
Laurel,  and  banner,  and  music,  and  drum, 

Marches,  and  requiems  sweet  ; 
Silence  !  keep  silence  !  alas,  how  they  come, 

Oh  !  how  they  move  through  the  street  ! 


in. 

Slowly,  ah  !  mournfully,  slowly  they  go, 
Bearing  the  young  and  the  brave, 
20* 


4-58  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Fair  as  the  summer,  but  white  as  the  snow 

Bearing  them  down  to  the  grave. 
Some  in  the  morning,  and  some  in  the  noon, 

Some  in  the  hey-day  of  life  ; 
Bower  nor  blossom,  nor  summer  nor  June, 

Wooing  them  back  to  the  strife. 

IV. 

Some  in  the  billow,  afar,  oh  !  afar, 

Staining  the  waves  with  their  blood  ; 
One  on  the  vessel's  high  deck,  like  a  star, 

Sinking  in  glory's  bright  flood.* 
Bowing  her  head  to  the  dust  of  the  earth, 

Humbled  but  honored  is  she, 
Lighting  the  skies  with  the  stars  from  her  hearth, 

Who  shall  her  comforter  be  ? 

v. 

Bring  her,  oh  !  bring  her  the  garments  of  woe, 

Sackcloth  and  ashes  for  aye  ; 
Winds  of  the  South  !  oh,  a  requiem  blow, 

Sighing  and  sorrow  to-day. 
Sprinkle  the  showers  from  heaven's  blue  eyes 

Wide  o'er  the  green  summer  lea, 
Rachel  is  weeping,  oh  !  Lord  of  the  skies, 

Thou  shalt  her  comforter  be  ! 

*  Captain  Thomas  Pelot,  C.  S.  N.,  killed  at  the  capture  of  the 
"  Water  Witch." 


BULL   RUN— A   PARODY.  459 


BULL  RUN.— A  PAROPY. 


AT  Bull  Run  when  the  sun  was  low, 
Each  Southern  face  grew  pale  as  snow, 
While  loud  as  jackdaws  rose  the  crow 
Of  Yankees  boasting  terribly  ! 

ii. 

But  Bull  Run  saw  another  sight, 
When  at  the  deepening  shades  of  night, 
Towards  Fairfax  Court-House  rose  the  flight 
Of  Yankees  running  rapidly. 

in. 

Then  broke  each  corps  with  terror  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steeds  from  battle  driven, 
The  men  of  battery  Number  Seven 
Forsook  their  Red  artillery  ! 

IV. 

Still  on  McDowell's  farthest  left, 
The  roar  of  cannon  strikes  one  deaf, 
Where  furious  Abe  and  fiery  Jeff 
Contend  for  death  or  victory. 


460  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


v. 


The  panic  thickens — off,  ye  brave  ! 
Throw  down  your  arms  !  your  bacon  save  ! 
Waive,  Washington,  all  scruples  waive, 
And  fly,  with  all  your  chivalry  ! 


"STACK  ARMS." 

WRITTEN    IN    THE    PRISON    OF    FORT    DELAWARE,    DEL.,    ON    HEARING    OF    THH 
SURRENDER   OF   GENERAL   LEE. 

BY  JOS.  BLYTH    ALSTON. 

"  STACK  Arms  !"  I've  gladly  heard  the  cry 

When,  weary  with  the  dusty  tread 
Of  marching  troops,  as  night  drew  nigh, 

I  sank  upon  my  soldier  bed, 
And  camly  slept ;  the  starry  dome 

Of  heaven's  blue  arch  my  canopy, 
And  mingled  with  my  dreams  of  home, 

The  thoughts  of  Peace  and  Liberty. 

"  Stack  Arms  1"  I've  heard  it,  when  the  shout 

Exulting,  rang  along  our  line, 
Of  foes  hurled  back  in  bloody  rout, 

Captured,  dispersed  ;  its  tones  divine 
Then  came  to  mine  enraptured  ear. 

Guerdon  of  duty  nobly  done, 


DOFFING   THE  GRAY.  461 

And  glistened  on  my  cheek  the  tear 
Of  grateful  joy  for  victory  won. 

"  Stack  Arms  !"    In  faltering  accents,  slow 

And  sad,  it  creeps  from  tongue  to  tongue, 
A  broken,  murmuring  wail  of  woe, 

From  manly  hearts  by  anguish  wrung. 
Like  victims  of  a  midnight  dream, 

We  move,  we  know  not  how  nor  why, 
For  life  and  hope  but  phantoms  seem, 

And  it  would  be  relief — to  die  ! 


DOFFING  THE  GRAY. 

BY    LIEUTENANT    FALLIGANT,   OF    SAVANNAH,  GEO. 

OFF  with  your  gray  suits,  boys — 

Off  with  your  rebel  gear — 
They  smack  too  much  of  the  cannons'  peal, 
The  lightning  flash  of  your  deadly  steel, 

The  terror  of  your  spear. 

Their  color  is  like  the  smoke 

That  curled  o'er  your  battle-line  ; 
They  call  to  mind  the  yell  that  woke 
When  the  dastard  columns  before  you  broke, 
And  their  dead  were  your  fatal  sign. 


462  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Off  with  the  starry  wreath, 

Ye  who  have  led  our  van  ; 
To  you  'twas  the  pledge  of  glorious  death, 
When  we  followed  you  over  the  gory  heath, 

Where  we  whipped  them  man  to  man. 

Down  with  the  cross  of  stars — 

Too  long  hath  it  waved  on  high  ; 
'Tis  covered  all  over  with  battle  scars, 
But  its  gleam  the  Northern  banner  mars — 

'Tis  time  to  lay  it  by. 

Down  with  the  vows  we've  made, 

Down  with  each  memory — 
Down  with  the  thoughts  of  our  noble  dead — 
Down,  down  to  the  dust,  where  their  forms  are  laid 

And  down  with  Liberty. 


IN   THE   LAND   WHERE   WE   WERE    DREAMING 

BY  D.  B.  LUCAS,  ESQ.,  OF  JEFFERSON. 

FAIR  were  our  visions  !  Oh,  they  were  as  grand 

As  ever  floated  out  of  Faerie  land  ; 
Children  were  we  in  single  faith, 
But  God-like  children,  whom,  nor  death, 

Nor  threat,  nor  danger  drove  from  Honor's  path, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


IN  THE  LAND    WHERE   WE   WERE  DREAMING.       4. 

Proud  were  our  men,  as  pride  of  birth  could  render ; 
As  violets,  our  women  pure  and  tender  ;  ' 

And  when  they  spoke,  their  voice  did  thrill 

Until  at  eve,  the  whip-poor-will, 
At  morn  the  mocking-bird,  were  mute  and  still 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of  glory 
Than  ever  tracked  tradition's  ancient  story  ; 

And  in  our  dream  we  wove  the  thread 

Of  principles  for  which  had  bled 
And  suffered  long  our  own  immortal  dead 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


Though  in  our  land  we  had  both  bond  and  free, 
Both  were  content ;  and  so  God  let  them  be  ; — 

'Till  envy  coveted  our  land 

And  those  fair  fields  our  valor  won  : 
But  little  recked  we,  for  we  still  slept  on, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Our  sleep  grew  troubled  and  our  dreams  grew  wild- 
Red  meteors  flashed  across  our  heaven's  field  ; 

Crimson  the  moon  ;  between  the  Twins 

Barbed  arrows  fly,  and  then  begins 
Such  strife  as  when  disorder's  Chaos  reigns, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


4fi4  WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Down  from  her  sun-lit  heights  smiled  Liberty 
And  waved  her  cap  in  sign  of  Victory — 
The  world  approved,  and  everywhere 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  bear, 
The  good,  the  brave,  the  just  gave  us  their  prayer 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


We  fancied  that  a  Government  was  ours — 

We  challenged  place  among  the  world's  great  powers  ; 

We  talked  in  sleep  of  Rank,  Commission, 

Until  so  life-like  grew  our  vision, 
That  he  who  dared  to  doubt  but  met  derision 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  looked  on  high  :  a  banner  there  was  seen, 
Whose  field  was  blanched  and  spotless  in  its  sheen — 

Chivalry's  cross  its  Union  bears, 

And  vet'rans  swearing  by  their  scars 
Yowed  they  would  bear  it  through  a  hundred  wars 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

A  hero  came  amongst  us  as  we  slept ; 

At  first  he  lowly  knelt — then  rose  and  wept  ; 

Then  gathering  up  a  thousand  spears 

He  swept  across  the  field  of  Mars  ; 
Then  bowed  farewell  and  walked  beyond  the  stars — 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


IN  THE  LAND    WHERE   WE  WERE  DREAMING. 

We  looked  again  :  another  figure  still 
Gave  hope,  and  nerved  each  individual  will — 
Full  of  grandeur,  clothed  with  power, 
Self-poised,  erect,  he  ruled  the  hour 
With  stern,  majestic  sway — of  strength  a  tower 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


As,  while  great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  warder  God, 
Gazed  eastward  from  the  Forum  where  he  stood, 
Rome  felt  herself  secure  and  free, 
So,  "  Richmond's  safe,"  we  said,  while  we 
Beheld  a  bronzed  Hero — God-like  Lee, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


As  wakes  the  soldier  when  the  alarum  calls — 
As  wakes  the  mother  when  the  infant  falls — 
As  starts  the  traveller  when  around 
His  sleeping  couch  the  fire-bells  sound — 
So  woke  our  nation  with  a  single  bound 
In  the  land  when)  we  were  dreaming. 

Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  the  startled  mother  cried — 
While  we  have  slept  our  noble  sons  have  died  ! 

Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  how  strange  and  sad, 

That  all  our  glorious  vision's  fled 
And  left  us  nothing  real  but  the  dead 

In  thp,  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  are  they  really  dead,  our  martyred  slain  ? 

No  !  dreamers  !  morn  shall  bid  them  rise  again 
From  every  vale — from  every  height 
On  which  they  seemed  to  die  for  right — 

Their  gallant  spirits  shall  renew  the  fight 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


BALLAD— "  YES,  BUILD  YOUR  WALLS." 


YES,  build  your  walls  of  stone  or  sand, 

But  know,  when  all  is  builded — then, 
The  proper  breastworks  of  the  land 

Are  in  a  race  of  freeborn  men  I 
The  sons  of  sires,  who  knew,  in  life, 

That,  of  all  virtues,  manhood  first, 
Still  nursing  peace,  yet  arms  for  strife, 

And  braves,  for  liberty,  the  worst ! 

ii. 

What  grand  examples  have  been  ours  ! 

Oh  !  sons  of  Moultrie,  Marion, — call 
From  mansions  of  the  past,  the  powers, 

That  plucked  ye  from  the  despot's  thrall 
Do  Sumter,  Rutledge,  Gadsden,  live  ? 

Oh  1  for  your  City  by  the  Sea, 


THE  LINES  AROUND  PETERSBURG.  4(37 

They  gladly  gave,  what  men  could  give, 
Blood,  life,  and  toil,  and  made  it  free  ! 


m. 

The  grand  inheritance,  in  trust 

For  children  of  your  loins,  must  know 
No  taint  of  shame,  no  loss  by  lust, 

Your  own,  or  of  the  usurping  foe  ! 
Let  not  your  sons,  in  future  days, 

The  children  now  that  bear  your  name, 
Exulting  in  a  grandsire's  praise, 

Droop  o'er  a  father's  grave  in  shame  ! 
CHARLESTON  MEKCUBT. 


THE  LINES  AROUND  PETERSBURG. 

BY  SAMUEL  DAVIS,  OF  NORTH  CAROLINA. 

"  Such  a  sleep  they  sleep, 
The  men  I  loved  !" 

TENNYSON. 

OH,  silence,  silence !  now,  when  night  is  near, 

And  I  am  left  alone, 
Thou  art  so  strange,  so  sad  reposing  here — 

And  all  so  changed  hath  grown, 
Where  all  was  once  exuberant  with  life 
Through  day  and  night,  in  deep  and  deadly  strife. 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


If  I  must  weep,  oh,  tell  me,  is  there  not 
Some  plaintive  story  breathed  into  mine  ear 
By  spirit-whispers  from  thy  voiceless  sphere, 

Haunting  this  awful  spot  ? 
To  my  sad  soul,  more  mutely  eloquent 
Than  words  of  fame  on  sculptured  monument 
Outspeaks  yon  crumbling  parapet,  where  lies 
The  broken  gun,  the  idly  rusting  ball, 
Mute  tokens  of  an  ill-starred  enterprise  ! 
Rude  altars  reared  for  costly  sacrifice  ! 
Vast  work  of  hero-hands  left  in  thy  fall  ! 

Where  are  they  now,  that  fearless  brotherhood, 

Who  marshalled  here, 

That  fearful  year, 

In  pain  and  peril,  yet  undaunted  stood,  — 
Though  Death  rode  fiercest  on  the  battle-storm 
And  earth  lay  strewn  with  many  a  glorious  form  ? 
Where  are  they  now,  who,  when  the  strife  was  done, 
With  kindly  greeting  'round  the  camp-fire  met,  — 
And  made  an  hour  of  mirth,  from  triumphs  won, 
Repay  the  day's  stern  toil,  when  the  slow  sun  had  set  ? 

Where  are  they  ?  — 

Let  the  nameless  grave  declare,  — 

In  strange  unwonted  hillocks  —  frequent  seen  I 

Alas  1  who  knows  how  much  lies  buried  there  !  — 

What  worlds  of  love,  and  all  that  might  have  been  ! 


THE  LIXRS  AROUND  PETERSBURG.  4-Qf) 

The  rest  are  scattered  now,  we  know  not  where  ; 
And  Life  to  each  a  new  employment  brings  ; 
But  still  they  seem  to  gather  round  me  here, 
To  whom  these  places  were  familiar  things  ! 
Wide  sundered  now,  by  mountain  and  by  stream, 
Once  brothers — still  a  brotherhood  they  seem  ; — 
More  firm  united,  since  a  common  woe 
Hath  brought  to  common  hopes  their  overthrow  ! 

Brave  souls  and  true  ; — in  toil  and  danger  tried, — 

I  see  them  still  as  in  those  glorious  years, 

When  strong,  and  battling  bravely  side  by  side, 

All  crowned  their  deeds  with  praise, — and  some  with  tears 

;Tis  done  !  the  sword  is  sheathed  ;  the  banner  furled, 

No  sound  where  late  the  crashing  missile  whirled — 

The  dead  alone  possess  the  battle-plain  ; 

The  living  turn  them  to  life's  cares  again. 

Oh,  Silence  !  blessed  dreams  upon  thee  wait ; 
tfere  Thought  and  Feeling  ope  their  precious  store, 
And  Memory,  gathering  from  the  spoils  of  Fate 
Love's  scattered  treasures,  brings  them  back  once  more  1 

So  let  me  often  dream, 

As  up  the  bright'ning  stream 

Of  olden  Time,  thought  gently  leads  me  on, 
Seeking  those  better  days,  lost,  lost,  alas  !   and  gone  ! 


£70  WAK  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


ALL  IS  GONE. 

FADETTE. — Memphis  Appeal. 

SISTER,  hark  !     Atween  the  trees  cometh  naught  but  sum 
mer  breeze  ? 

All  is  gone — 

Summer  breezes  come  and  go.    Hope  doth  never  wander  so — 
No,  nor  evermore  doth  Woe. 

Sister,  look  !     Adown  the  lane  treadeth  only  April  rain  ? 

All  is  gone — 
Through  the  tangled  hedge-rows  green  glimmer  thus  the 

sunbeam's  sheen, 
Dropping  from  cloud-rifts  between  ? 

Sister,  hark  !  the  very  air  heavy  on  my  heart  doth  bear — 

All  is  gone  ! — 
E'en  the  birds  that  chirped  erewhile  for  the  frowning  sun  to 

smile, 
Hush  at  that  drum  near  the  stile. 

Sister,  pray  ! — it   is  the  foe  !     On  thy  knees — aye,   very 

low — 

All  is  gone, 
And  the  proud  South  on  her  knees  to  a  mongrel  race  like 

these — 
But  the  dead  sleep  'neath  the  trees. 


ALL   /<?  GONE.  47 1 

See — they  come — their  banners   flare  gayly  in  our  gloomy 
air — 

All  is  gone — 

Flashed  our  Southern  Cross  all  night — naught  but  a  mete 
oric  light 

In  a  moment  lost  to  sight  ? 


Aye,  so  gay — the  brave   array — marching  from  no  battle 
fray — 

All  is  gone, — 

Yet  who  vannteth,  of  your  host,  maketh  he  but  little  boast 
If  he  think  on  battles  most 


On  they  wind,  behind  the  wood.     Dost  remember  once  we 

stood — 

All  is  gone — 
All  but  memory,  of  those  days — but  weVe  stood  here  while 

the  haze 
Of  the  battle  met  the  blaze 


Of  the   sun  adown   yon   hill.     Charge  on   charge — I  hear 

them  still — 

All  is  gone  ! — 
Yet  I  hear  the  echoing  crash — see  the  sabres  gleam  and 

flash- 
See  one  gallant  headlong  dash. 


4.72  WAR   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

One,  amid   the   battle-wreck,  restive   plunged  his   charger 

black — 

All  is  gone — 
Whirrs  the  partridge   there — didst  see  where   he  rode  so 

recklessly  ? 
Once  he  turned  and  waved  to  me. 

"Ah,"  tbou  saidst,  "the   smoke  is  dark,  scarce   can  I  our 
banner  mark" — 

All  is  gone — 

All  but  memory  ;  yet  I  see,  darksome  howsoe'er  it  be,  — -t-= 
How  to  death — to  death — rode  he. 

Not  a  star  he  proudly  bore,  but  a  sword  all  dripping  gore — 

All  is  gone — 

Dashes  on  our  little  band  like  yon  billow  on  the  strand — 
Like  yon  strand  unmoved  they  stand. 

For  their  serried  ranks  are  strong  :  thousands  upon  thou 
sands  throng — 

All  is  gone, 

And  the  handful,  true  and  brave,  spent,  like  yonder  dying 
wave, 

Fall  back  slowly  from  that  grave. 

Low  our  banner  drooped — and  fell.     Back  he   spurs,  mid 
shot  and  shell — 

All  was  gone, 


ALL  IS  GONE. 


473 


But  he  waves  it  high— and  then,  on— we  sweep  them  from 

the  glen — 
But  he  ne'er  rode  back  again. 

Ah,  I  smiled  to  see  him  go.     How  my  cheek  with  pride  did 
glow  ! 

All  is  gone — 

All,  of  pride  or  hope,  for  me — but  that  evening,  hopefully 
Stood  I  at  the  gate  with  thee, 

Sister,  when  at  twilight  gray  marched  our  soldiers   back 

this  way — 

All  is  gone — 
In  the  woods  rang  many  a  cheer — how  we  smiled  !     I  did 

not  fear 
Till — at  last  was  borne  a  bier 

Sweetest   sister,    dost   thou    weep  ?     Hush  !    he    only   fell 


All  is  gone — 

And  'twere  better  he  had  died — free,  whatever  us  betide — 
Our  galling  chains  untried. 

We  were  leaning  on   the   gate.     Dost   remember,  it  gre\v 
late- 
All  is  gone — 

Yet  I  see  the  stars  so   pale— see  the   shadows  down  tin- 
vale — 

Hear  the  whip-poor-will's  far  wail, 

21 


474  WAR   POET  ft  Y  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

As  if  all  were  in  a  dream.     Through  yon  pines  the  moon  did 

gleam — 

All  is  gone — 
On  that  banner-pall  of  death—on  that  red   sword  without 

sheath — 
And — I  knew  who  lay  beneath. 

Did  I  speak  ?     I  thought  I  said,  let  me  look   upon  your 

dead — 

All  is  gone — 
Was  I  cold  ?     I  did  not  weep.     Tears  are  spray  from  founts 

not  deep — 
My  heart  lies  in  frozen  sleep 

Sister,  pray  for  me.     Thine  eyes  gleam  like  God's  own  mid 
night  skies — 

All  is  gone — 

Tuneless   are   my  spirit's   chords.     I  but  look  up,  like  the 
birds, 

And  trust  Christ  to  say  the  words. 


BOWING  HER  HEAD. 

HER  head  is  bowed  downwards  ;  so  pensive  her  air, 
As  she  looks  on  the  ground  with  her  pale,  solemn  face, 

It  were  hard  to  decide  whether  faith  or  despair, 

Whether  anguish  or  trust,  in  her  heart  holds  a  place. 


BOWING  HER  HEAD.  475 

Her  hair  was  all  gold  in  the  sun's  joyous  light, 
Her  brow  was  as  smooth  as  the  soft,  placid  sea  : 

But  the  furrows  of  care  came  with  shadows  of  night, 
And  the  gold  silvered  pale  when  the  light  left  the  lea. 


Her  lips  slightly  parted,  deep  thought  in  her  eye, 
While  sorrow  cuts  seams  in  her  forehead  so  fair  ; 

Her  bosom  heaves  gently,  she  stifles  a  sigh, 

And  just  moistens  her  lid  with  the  dews  of  a  tear. 


Why  droops  she  thus  earthward — why  bends  she  ?    Oh,  see  ! 

There  are  gyves  on  her  limbs  !  see  her  manacled  hand  1 
She  is  loaded  with  chains  ;  but  her  spirit  is  free — 

Free  to  love  and  to  mourn  for  her  desolate  land. 


Her  jailer,  though  cunning,  lacks  wit  to  devise 

How  to  fetter  her  thoughts,  as  her  limbs  he  has  done  ; 

The  eagle  that's  snatched  from  his  flight  to  the  skies, 
From  the  bars  of  his  cage  may  still  gaze  at  the  sun. 


No  sound  does  she  utter  ;    all  voiceless  her  pains  ; 

The  wounds  of  her  spirit  with  pride  she  conceals  ; 
She  is  dumb  to  her  shearers  ;  the  clank  of  her  chains 

And  the  throbs  of  her  heart  Only  tell  what  she  feels. 


476  WAR  FOETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

She  looks  sadly  around  her  ;  now  sombre  the  scene  ! 

How  thick  the  deep  shadows  that  darken  her  view  ! 
The  black  embers  of  homes  where  the  earth  was  so  green, 

And  the  smokes  of  her  wreck  where  the  heavens  shorn; 
blue. 


Her  daughters  bereaved  of  all  succor  but  God, 
Her  bravest  sons  perished — the  light  of  her  eyes  ; 

But  oppression's  sharp  heel  does  not  cut  'neath  the  sod, 
And   she  knows   that   the   chains    cannot   bind   in    the 
skies. 


She  thinks  of  the  vessel  she  aided  to  build, 
Of  all  argosies  richest  that  floated  the  seas  ; 

Compacted  so  strong,  framed  by  architects  skilled, 
Or  to  dare  the  wild  storm,  or  to  sail  to  the  breeze. 


The  balmiest  winds  blowing  soft  where  she  steers, 
The  favor  of  heaven  illuming  her  path — 

She  might  sail  as  she  pleased  to  the  mild  summer  airs, 
And  avoid  the  dread  regions  of  tempest  and  wrath. 


But  the  crew  quarrelled  soon  o'er  the  cargo  she  bore 
'Twas  adjusted  unfairly,  the  cavillers  said  ; 

And  the  anger  of  men  marred  the  peace  that  of  yore 
Spread  a  broad  path  of  glory  and  sunshine  ahead. 


£  OWING  HER  HEAD.  477 

There  were  seams  in  her  planks — there  were  spots  on  her 

flag- 
So  the  fanatics  said,  as  they  seized  on  her  helm  ; 

And  from  soft  summer  seas,  turned  her  prow  where  the  crag 
And  the  wild  breakers  rose  the  good  ship  to  o'er  whelm. 


Then  the  South,  though  true  love  to  the  vessel  she  bore, 
Since  she  first  laid  its  keel  in  the  days  that  were  gone- 
Saw  it  plunge  madly  on  to  the  wild  billows'  roar, 
And  rush  to  destruction  and  ruin  forlorn. 


So  she  passed  from  the  decks,  in  the  faith  of  her  heart 
That  justice  and  God  her  protectors  would  be  ; 

Not  dashed  like  a  frail,  fragile  spar,  without  chart, 
In  the  fury  and  foam  of  the  wild  raging  sea. 


The  life-boat  that  hung  by  the  stout  vessel's  side 

She  seized,  and  embarked  on  the  wide,  trackless  main, 

In  the  faith  that  she'd  reach,  making  virtue  her  guide, 
The  haven  the  mother-ship  failed  to  attain 


But  the  crew  rose  in  wrath,  and  they  swore  by  their  might 
They  would  sink  the  brave  boat  that  did  buffet  the  sea, 

For  daring  to  seek,  by  her  honor  and  right, 

A  new  port  from  the  storms,  a  new  home  for  the  free. 


478  WAR  POETRY  OF  THK  SOUTH. 

So  they  crushed  the  brave  boat  ;    all  forbearance  they  lost.; 

They  littered  with  ruins  the  ocean  so  wild — 
Till  the  hulk  of  the  parent  ship,  beaten  and  tossed, 

Drifted  prone  on  the  flood  by  the  wreck  of  the  child. 

And  the  bold  rower,  loaded  with  fetters  and  chains, 

In  the  gloom  of  her  heart  sings  the  proud  vessel's  dirge  ; 

Half  forgets,  in  its  wreck,  all  the  pangs  of  her  pains, 
As  she  sees  its  stout  parts  floating  loose  in  the  surge. 

SAVANNAH  BROADSIDE. 


THE    CONFEDERATE    FLAG. 

BY    ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIES,    OF    LOUISIANA. 

TAKE  that  banner  down,  'tis  weary, 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary, 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest ; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it — 
For  there's  not  a  soul  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  that  heroes  gave  it. 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest. 

Take  that  banner  down,  'tis  tattered  ; 
Broken  is  its  staff,  and  shattered  ; 
And  the  valiant  hearts  are  scattered 
Over  whom  it  floated  high. 


THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG. 

Oh  1  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it — 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it — 
Hard  that  those,  who  once  unrolled  it, 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  banner,  fnrl  it  sadly  ; 
Once  six  millions  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  three  hundred  thousand,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave — 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever — 
That  their  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it,  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low  ; 
And  that  banner — it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe  ; 
For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it, 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it, 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it — 
Oh  I  how  wildly  they  deplore  it, 

Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so  ! 

Furl  that  banner  ;  true  'tis  gory, 
But  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 


480  WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust ; 
For  its  fame,  on  brightest  pages— 
Sung  by  poets,  penned  by  sages — 
Shall  go  sounding  down  to  ages — 
Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  banner — softly,  slowly  ; 
Furl  it  gently,  it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not,  unfurl  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled. 


ASHES  OF  GLORY. 

BY  A.  J.  REQUIER. 

FOLD  up  the  gorgeous  silken  sun, 

By  bleeding  martyrs  blest, 
And  heap  the  laurels  it  has  won 

Above  its  place  of  rest. 

No  trumpet's  note  need  harshly  blare — 

No  drum  funereal  roll — 
Nor  trailing  sables  drape  the  bier 

That  frees  a  dauntless  soul  ! 


ASHES  OF  GLORY.  43} 

It  lived  with  Lee,  and  decked  his  brow 

From  Fate's  empyreal  Palm  : 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  Jackson  now — 

As  spotless  and  as  calm. 


It  was  outnumbered — not  outdone  ; 

And  they  shall  shuddering  tell, 
Who  struck  the  blow,  its  latest  gun 

Flashed  ruin  as  it  fell. 


Sleep,  shrouded  Ensign  1  not  the  breeze 

That  smote  the  victor  tar, 
With  death  across  the  heaving  seas 

Of  fiery  Trafalgar ; 


Not  Arthur's  knights,  amid  the  gloom 
Their  knightly  deeds  have  starred  ; 

Nor  Gallic  Henry's  matchless  plume, 
Nor  peerless-born  Bayard  ; 


Not  all  that  antique  fables  feign, 
And  Orient  dreams  disgorge  ; 

Nor  yet,  the  Silver  Cross  of  Spain, 
And  Lion  of  St.  George, 


WAK   POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

Can  bid  tbce  pale  !     Proud  emblem,  still 

Thy  crimson  glory  shines 
Beyond  the  lengthened  shades  that  fill 

Their  proudest  kingly  lines. 


Sleep  !  in  thine  own  historic  night, — • 
And  be  thy  blazoned  scroll, 

A  warrior's  Banner  takes  its  flight, 
To  greet  the  warrior's  soul  ! 


THE    END. 


A.    COMPLETE    SOUTHERN    HISTORY! 

SOUTHERN  HISTORY  OF  THE  WAR: 

By  EDWARD  A.  POLLARD, 

Late    Editor    of  tlie    .Richmond.    Examiner. 

One  Volume  8vo.  1258  Pages. 
Cloth $5.00|  Half  Calf,  library  style.... $7.50 

"WITH  SPLENDID  STEEL  PORTRAITS  OF 

Gen.  Robert  E.  Lee,  Gen.  P.  G.  T.  Beauregard,        Gen.  W.  J.  Hardee, 

Gen.  Jos.  E.  Johnston,  Gen.  Braxton  Bragg,  Gen.  John  Morgan, 

Gen.  T,  J.  Jackson,  Gen.  R.  S.  Ewell,  Gen.  Samuel  Cooper, 

Gen.  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  Gen.  E.  Kirby  Smith,  Jefferson  Davis, 

Gen.  James  Longstreet,  Gen.  Sterling  Price,  Alex.  H.  Stephens, 

Gen.  A.  P.  Hill,  Gen.  Wade  Hampton,  Edward  A.  Pollard. 

Gen.  John  B.  Hood,  Gen.  Leonidas  Polk, 


Mr.  Pollard's  editorial  position  during  the  War,  placed  at  his  disposal  a  vast  amount 
of  official  and  authentic  information  in  regard  to  the  events  then  transpiring,  and  it 
is  one  of  the  chief  excellences  of  this  History  that,  being  written  while  the  intense 
interest  of  its  great  subject  was  unabated,  it  has  all  the  vividness  and  graphicness  of 
such  contemporary  writing.  No  work  written  at  a  later  date  can  have  this  charm  of 
life-like  vividness  ;  and  the  preparation  of  an  elaborate,  scientific  History,  is  the  work 
of  many  years,  and  cannot  yet  be  attempted. 

The  excellence  and  value  of  this  History  consists  largely  in  the  fact  that  it  daguer 
reotypes  the  swiftly  occuring  events  of  the  Hour — speaks  of  them  as  they  were  thought 
of  at  the  time— describes  them  as  they  seemed  to  the  actors  in  them — and  brings  back 
to  mind  with  their  early  freshness  and  interest  the  changing  impulses  and  feelings  of 
the  past  time. 

This  History  alone  has  this  interest  and  excellence,  and  the  public  are  cautioned 
against  expecting  such  merit  in  any  subsequently  written  works.  Intelligent  readers 
desire  to  know  what  was  thought  at  the  time  of  their  occurrence  of  the  great  events  of 

The  completeness  and  cheapness  of  this  work  make  it  most  desirable.  It  is  a  com 
prehensive  and  fully  detailed  History  of  the  momentous  four  years  during  which 
Secession  was  fought  for  and  lost.  It  begins  with  the  causes  leading  to  the  "War — 
describes  carefully  and  vividly  all  the  brilliant  and  extraordinary  campaigns  of  the 
long  conflict— points  out  the  political  relations  of  events  -describes  picturesquely  and 
graphically  the  fall  of  Richmond— and  closes  with  the  surrender  of  the  several  Con 
federate  armies,  and  the  consequent  end  of  the  War ; — while  its  very  low  price  makes 
it  the 

CHEAPEST  HISTORY  NOW  PUBLISHED  ! 

It  is  one-half  larger  than  any  other  work  of  the  kind,  and  its  twenty  finely  engraved 
full  page  steel  portraits  are  alone  worth  the  en;  ire  cost  of  the  book. 

The  almost  unanimous  commendation  of  the  press — the  approval  of  the  Confederate 
leaders — and  the  immense  sale  of  the  book  everywhere,  are  sufficient  proofs  of  its 
great  value  and  interest. 

RICHARDSON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

54O  Broadway,  Neiv  YorJe. 


A  BOOK  OF  ABSORBING  INTEREST. 


LEE    AND    HIS    GENERALS. 

By   CAPT.   TOT.  PARKER  SHOW. 

One  Vol.  8vo.,  500  Pages. 
Cloth $3.50  |  Half  Calf,  library  style....  $5.50 

WITH  SPLENDID  STEEL  PORTRAITS  OF 

Gen.  Eobert  E.  Lee,  Gen.  E.  S.  Ewell,  Gen.  John  B.  Hood, 

Gen  Jos.  E.  Johnston,  Gen.  Leonidas  Polk,  Gen.  E.  Kirby  Smith, 

Gen.  T.  J.  Jackson,  Gen.  Wade  Hampton,  Gen  Sterling  Price. 

Gen.  P.  G.  T.  Beauregard,  Gen.  James  Longstreet,  Gen.  W.  J.  Hardee, 

Gen.  Braxton  Bragg,  Gen.  A.  P.  Hill,  Gen.  John  Morgan, 

Gen.  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  Gen.  Samuel  Cooper, 

And  an  Engraving  of  Gen.  Lee's  Ancestral  Home  in  Virginia. 


No  book  irtorc  excellent  than  this  as  regards  its  treatment  of  its  subjects,  its  beauty 
of  appearance,  and  its  universal  popularity,  is  now  offered  to  the  public.  No  expense 
has  been  spared  to  secure  excellence  in  all  its  features,  and  the  Author,  by  the  most 
pains-taking  care  and  diligent  research,  has  prepared  a 

VOLUME  OF  HEROIC  BIOGRAPHIES, 

which  will  be  of  lasting  value  and  interest.  This  great  Leader,  and  his  able  Lieuten 
ants,  were  the  life  of  the  Confederate  cause  ;  and  these  graphic  and  complete  sketches 
of  their  lives  and  campaigns  form  really  a 

BIOGRAPHICAL   HISTORY   OF  THE  WAR. 

Such  records  of  personal  adventure  and  accomplishment  form  the  most  intensely 
interesting  history  ;  they  have  a,  direct  and  absorbing  attraction,  possessed  by  no  other 
style  of  writing.  The  first  desire  cf  each  one  in  regard  to  every  prominent  man,  is  to 
know  more  intimately  his  personal  life  and  doings,  to  become  acquainted  with  the  man 
himself. 

This  information  can  rarely  be  obtained  in  elaborate  Histories ;  but  is  distinctively 
the  province  of  such  a  work  as  "  Lee  and  his  Generals." 

The  finely  engraved  full  page  steel  Portraits  are  a  distinguishing  feature  in  the 
book.  They  are  the  finest  portraits  yet  issued,  and  are  alone  worth  the  entire  cost  of 
the  work .  The  immense  sale  of  the  book  in  every  section  of  the  country,  assures  us 
that  our  estimate  of  its  excellence,  is  in  no  way  too  high. 

RICHARDSON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

54O  Broadway,  New  York. 


A  BOOK  FOR  EVERY  SOUTHERN  HOME 


WAR  POETRY  OF  THE  SOUTH: 

Edited  by  W.  GILMOBE  SIMMS,  LL.  D.,  of  South  Carolina, 

One  Volume,  12mo.  488  Pages. 

Cloth $2.50        Morocco  Cloth  extra,  Gilt  Edges,  $3.50 


The  Publishers  take  great  pleasure  in  issuing  a  volume  of  Southern  Poetry,  occa 
sioned  by  the  late  War,  sucb  as,  it  is  believed,  will  happily  vindicate  the  taste  and  tal 
ent  of  the  Southern  people.  The  collection  has  been  made  by  an  author  whose 
reputation  is  general  throughout  all  the  States.  lie  has  thus  enjoyed  the  greatest 
advantage  in  making  the  collection ;  contributions  having  been  freely  sent  him  from 
all  parts  of  the  late  Confederacy.  The  various  pieces  will  be  found  to  represent  all 
classes  of  people ;  all  aspects  of  popular  feeling ;  the  enthusiasm  which  glows  with 
triumph  ;  the  despondency  which  mourns  over  defeat ;  the  pride  which  exults  in  thn 
hero ;  and  the  despair  which  sees  ruin  in  his  fall.  Here  is  the  lyric  which  times  tho 
march  to  battle ;  the  slogan  which  inspires  the  charge ;  the  rally  which  re-inspires 
after  reverse  ;  and  the  elegy  which  recites  the  virtues  of  the  beloved  one  : — the  sub 
dued  sorrow  of  the  palace,  and  the  unmeasured  wail  of  the  cottage.  Every  home  in 
the  South,  every  affection,  feeling  and  sympathy  here  finds  its  illustrative  record  in 
melodious  verse.  In  every  home  this  volume  will  prove  a  family  book,  to  be  pored 
over,  with  various  recollections,  and  fondly  and  frequently  referred  to,  as  embodying 
a  record  precious  to  the  growing  generations.  It  is  a  gratefnl,  though  melancholy 
record,  and  although  it  tells  of  defeat  and  overthrow,  and  the  forfeiture  of  confident 
hopes,  and  of  proud  anticipations,  it  is  still  a  monument  of  pride,  as  it  tells  of  heroic 
struggle  to  the  last,  and  of  a  sublime  resignation,  even  after  the  defeat  of  every  hope. 
Many  of  these  poems  are  from  pens  already  well  known  and  honored  in  the  literature 
of  the  nation.  Others  from  less  known  and  humbler  sources  are  yet  not  unworthy 
of  their  association.  The  whole  constitutes  a  memorial  at  once  to  the  patriotism  and 
genius  of  the  Southern  people.  It  would  be  invidious  were  we  to  refer  to  particular 
names,  and  to  invite  attention  to  particular  pieces,  for  the  whole  will  be  read  with 
respect  and  a  great  portion  with  highest  admiration.  There  will  be  found,  we  trust, 
no  small  number  of  these  pieces  quite  worthy  of  a  place  in  any  collection  of  American 
and  patriotic  Poetry.  The  volume  well  merits  to  become 

A  FAMILY  BOOK  IN  EVERY  SOUTHERN  HOME. 

Agents  will  find  this  admirable  and  interesting  book  received  with  enthusiasm 
everywhere,  and  its  sale  universal. 

RICHARDSON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

54O  Broadway,  New  York, 


WAR-CHESS,  or  the  GAME  OF  BATTLE. 


The  subscribers  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  to  the  public  a  new  and  beautiful  game,  iuventcd 
daring  the  war  by  Col.  Chas.  Richardson,  of  the  Artillery  of  Gcu.  Lee's  army,  and  pronounced  by  dis 
tinguished  mili'ary  critics  and  chess-players  one  of  the  most  attractive  and  ingenious  games  of  strategy 
yet  offered  to  the  public. 

War-Chess,  or  the  Game  of  Ba'tle,  is  played  by  two  persons,  with  figures  representing  Soldiers. 
(Cavalry,  Artillery  and  Infantry,)  forming  two  antagonis  ic  armies,  operating  on  a  boar  i — as  seen 
above.  The  board  represents  a  comparatively  level  country  traversed  by  a  river,  passable  at  three 
points  only,  viz  :  the  bridge  and  two  fords. 

On  one  side  of  the  river  there  is  a  figure  representing  a  city  which  is  to  be  defended,  and  if  captured, 
the  player  or'  that  side  loses  the  game. 

On  the  other  side  is  a  figure  representing  a  Wagon — "  the  supply  train  "  of  that  army,  which  must 
be  carefully  guarded,  as  its  loss  is  the  defeat  of  the  player  of  the  side  to  which  it  belongs. 

The  figures  (representing  the  several  arms  of  the  mjlitary  service1*  hnve  different  powers  and  capnci- 
ties,  as  i  j  actual  warfare,  and  the  game  is  thus  made,  as  nearly  as  possible,  to  represent  anti  illustrate 
a  real  conflict. 

A  book  of  explanation  accompanies  each  copy  of  the  Game,  giving  its  composition,  rules  for  playing, 
suggestions  to  players,  remarks  illustrating  the  power  of  the  figures  as  compared  with  that  of  the  troops 
r  -presented :  plates  illustrating  certain  moves,  etc.  and  indeed  explicitly  showing  how  the  game  is  to  be 
played. 

Price  $5  00.    The  figures  silvered  and  bronzed,  and  the  board  very  tastefully  lithographed. 

We  prepare  a  finer  edition,  also,  the  figures  full  length — as  in  cut — silvered  and  bronzed;  the  board 
covered  with  fine  morocco,  and  every  detail  finished  in  the  most  elegant  manner.  Price  $2000.  This 
set  makes  an  elegant  parlor  ornament. 

Carefully  packed  and  sent  by  express,  upon  receipt  of  price. 

RICHARDSON  &.  CO.,  Publishers, 

54O  Broadway,  Jfetv  York. 


— *  asasssa."""™ 


OVERDUE. 


MAR__2 
MAR  21  IMC 


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loo 


LD2l-lOOm-7,'39(402s) 


